IHe  Pillars 
0  E/den 

Philip  Verrill  Mighels 

C^ 


281D 


THE  PILLARS  OF  EDEN 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

A  Novel 

BY 

PHILIP  VERRILL  MIGHELS 


AUTHOR  OF  "BRUVER  JIM'S  BABY" 


New  York 

Desmond  FitzGerald,  Inc. 
Publishers 


Copyright,  1909, 
By  DESMOND  FITZGERALD,  Inc. 

All  Rights  Reserved 


TO 

FRANCESCA 


2137420 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

PAGE 

I. 

AN  INTRODUCTION 

1 

II. 

THE  WORM  IN  THE  BUD 

11 

III. 

A  BOLT  FROM  THE  BLUE 

19 

IV. 

A  COUP  DE  GRACE 

25 

V. 

THE  TREACHERY  COMPLETE 

32 

VI. 

THE  LAMB  AND  THE  LIONS  . 

37 

VII. 

THE  SQUIRRELS  IN  THE  PARK 

45 

VIII. 

A  MOOD  OF  HYMEN'S  CALM  . 

50 

IX. 

CHAUNCEY'S  BELATED  CONFESSION 

56 

X. 

A  LETTER  FROM  HOME  . 

65 

BOOK    II 

I. 

75 

II. 

A  VISITOR       

1  1/ 

82 

III. 

BABE        

88 

IV. 

AN  INSTRUMENT  OF  FATE     . 

94 

V. 

MAE  AND  BEATRICE 

99 

VI. 

A  LINGERING  FONDNESS 

107 

VII. 

TEMPTATION           .... 

119 

VIII. 

NEW  ACQUAINTANCES    . 

124 

IX. 

THE  WAY  OF  A  WIFE  . 

133 

X. 

THE  SMOLDERING  SPAKE 

141 

vii 

Contents 


CHAPTER 

XI.  THE  OPENING  DOOE  OF  TEMPTA- 
TION    ...... 

XII.  THE  DANGEE  LINE        .        .        . 

XIII.  A  RESPITE      ..... 

XIV.  CONCERNING  CHIVALET          .        . 

XV.  THE  LUEE  OF  FIEE       .        .        . 

XVI.  A  LOSING  FIGHT   .        .        .        . 

XVII.  WILL   SLOANE        .        .        .        . 

XVIII.  VISITORS  AND  REVELATIONS  .        . 

XIX.  UNCERTAINTY  UNABASHED    .        . 

XX.  ROSES  AND  RECKLESSNESS     .        . 

XXI.  A  TRAP  FOR  TROUBLE  .        .        . 

XXII.  WHEN  LOVE  is  AT  BAY  .        .        . 

XXIII.  THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  DOG       .        . 

XXIV.  GOADED  SOULS        .        .        .        . 
XXV.  TICKETS  FOR  Two          .        .        . 

XXVI.  FIRST  AID  TO  THE  SHY  .        .        . 

XXVII.  THE  LEAPING  FLAME    .        .        . 

XXVIII.  AN  INTERRUPTION          .        .        . 

XXIX.  THE  CLIMAX  ..... 

XXX.  THE  PILLARS  OF  EDEN  .        .        . 

XXXI.  OLD  ORDERS  THAT  CHANGE  .        . 

XXXII.  THE  TIE  THAT  BINDS   .        .        . 

XXXIII.  THE  TRIUMPH 


153 
159 
171 
180 


201 
209 
217 
225 
230 
241 
251 
263 
272 
278 
286 
291 
302 
308 
322 
328 
336 
341 


CHAPTER  I 

AN    INTRODUCTION 

CROSWELL  swung  around  the  bend  where  the 
road  dipped  deeper  into  June.  Beyond  were 
richer  greens  and  fields,  new  tree- forms  cut 
against  the  sky,  new  argosies  of  soft,  white  clouds 
afloat  in  the  luminous  blue. 

With  all  the  sunshine,  breath  of  summer,  riches  of 
sky,  and  ineffable  charm  of  the  Jersey  landscape  en- 
ticingly unfolding  before  him,  Adam  marveled  to 
find  he  could  walk  so  far,  on  such  a  Sunday  afternoon, 
and  encounter  so  little  of  life. 

A  gray  old  fence  straggled  crookedly  off  to  a 
bridge  across  the  river.  Strawberries  lifted  their 
ruby  red  from  the  grass  by  the  roadside  path.  The 
few  that  Adam  picked  and  ate  spilled  color  on  his 
lips  and  hands  as  the  sunshine  spilled  brightness  in 
his  eyes. 

He  was  loitering  onwards  towards  the  dusty  bridge, 
his  senses  loath  to  relinquish  the  scene,  when  just  up 
ahead  he  abruptly  beheld  another  highway  occupant, 
rushing  in  headlong  madness  down  upon  him.  It  was 
a  small  cream-colored  pony,  hitched  to  a  tiny  phaeton, 
with  which  it  was  running  away.  A  child's  hat, 

1 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

held  by  its  ribbon,  waved  and  gyrated  wildly  in  the 
air  as  the  pony  galloped  out  upon  the  bridge. 

Adam  had  halted,  alertly  poised  to  spring  for 
the  bridle,  throw  on  his  weight  and  stop  the  little 
fury  of  a  steed,  should  he  manage  to  cross  the  bridge 
intact. 

The  climax  came  a  moment  later.  Frightened  per- 
haps by  the  clatter  he  made  on  the  loose  old  plank- 
ing of  the  structure,  the  pony  lurched  blindly  and 
sharply  to  the  right — and  disaster  was  there,  crouched 
in  waiting.  The  phaeton  struck  with  violence  against 
the  wooden  railing,  that  buckled  inward  towards  the 
center.  Then  it  snapped,  fully  ten  feet  ahead  of 
the  frightened  little  animal's  nose.  The  wheels  were 
flung  inward,  but  instantly  rebounded. 

With  crashing  of  frail  old  scantlings  and  splinter- 
ing of  posts,  the  entire  outfit,  pony,  phaeton  and 
railing,  hung  for  one  desperate  moment  above  the 
quiet  stream,  then  dropped  a  sheer  fifteen  feet  and 
landed  in  the  water.  There,  in  the  utter  confusion 
of  tangled  harness,  sinking  wheels  and  shattered 
shafts,  the  pony  struggled  vainly,  churning  in  mad- 
ness at  the  tide.  But  his  nose  went  under  despite  his 
frantic  struggles  and,  exhausted  soon,  he  lay  there 
helplessly  drowning. 

Croswell  had  run  swiftly  forward.  He  leaped  over 
parts  of  the  railing  that  lay  upon  the  planks  and, 
looking  down,  beheld  the  pony's  fatal  plight.  He 
did  not  hear  a  distant  cry,  from  far  up  the  road,  be- 
neath the  trees,  nor  did  he  observe  a  second  horse 

2 


An  Introduction 

racing  swiftly  towards  him  with  a  white-faced  young 
woman  in  the  saddle. 

He  merely  took  time  to  swing  himself  down  from 
the  edge  of  the  planks,  to  which  he  held  for  half  a 
minute  before  he  dropped,  feet  foremost,  like  a  plum- 
met. He  struck  the  water  a  short  distance  only 
above  the  wreckage  of  the  phaeton,  where  he  sank 
from  sight,  to  bob  up  promptly  and  clutch  the  near- 
est strap.  Then  he  thrust  his  hand  in  his  pocket, 
drew  forth  a  knife  and  set  to  work  to  slash  away 
the  harness. 

At  the  first  of  his  movements  the  pony  thrashed 
anew  in  violence.  It  was  a  futile  paroxysm  in  which 
the  tiny  animal  endeavored  to  kick  or  swim  from  the 
anchorage  that  held  him  there  to  perish. 

"  Be  still !  "  said  Adam,  whose  first  concern  was  to 
cut  a  rein  and  a  second  strap  that  held  the  pony's 
head  beneath  the  surface.  "  Whoa,  boy,  whoa,"  he 
added.  "  Take  it  easy  or  you'll  get  us  both  in 
trouble." 

He  was  baffled  by  an  intricate  mess  into  which  the 
harness  was  woven.  Somewhere  beneath  the  surface 
there  were  traces  or  checks  that  bound  the  pony  to 
his  doom.  Time  after  time  he  threw  out  his  nose, 
to  blow  up  a  fountain  like  a  spouting  whale,  barely 
in  time  to  avoid  the  rush  of  water  to  his  lungs.  And 
despite  the  assuring  voice  so  near  at  hand  he  labored 
once  more  in  throes  of  agony. 

Adam  now  ducked  beneath  the  surface,  found  a 
binding  strap,  and  slashed  it  through.  His  head 

3 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

and  the  pony's  half  buried  nose  shot  upward  from 
the  depths  together.  Even  then  his  task  of  cutting 
the  animal  loose  was  hardly  half  commenced.  He 
had  scratched  his  forehead  slightly  and  a  thin  line 
of  red  appeared  above  his  eye.  The  blood  was 
washed  across  his  face  by  the  dripping  from  his  hair. 

Meantime  the  rider  on  the  second  horse  had  been 
for  some  time  at  the  end  of  the  bridge  eagerly  watch- 
ing the  proceedings.  She  was  an  exceptionally 
beautiful  young  woman.  The  light  of  sheer  uncon- 
scious admiration,  burning  in  her  soft  brown  eyes  as 
she  gazed  at  the  man  and  his  labors  in  the  stream, 
lent  a  marvel  of  sweet,  unstudied  earnestness  to  her 
expression.  She  had  made  no  sound  since  uttering 
her  one  involuntary  cry  when  pony  and  phaeton  dis- 
appeared from  sight. 

She  was  absolutely  silent  now,  her  eyes  intently 
fixed  upon  the  struggle  that  she  realized  the  man 
was  making  to  liberate  the  horse.  That  she  could 
offer  no  assistance  she  was  perfectly  aware.  To  cry 
out,  or  even  to  distract  the  man's  attention  from  his 
task  might  merely  serve  to  defeat  his  disinterested 
purpose.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  wait  and 
project  to  him  there  all  the  aid  of  her  sympathetic 
being. 

With  his  head  above  water  the  pony  became  more 
rational.  The  plunge  had  cooled  his  madness;  the 
struggle  had  exhausted  his  strength.  Adam  was 
presently  enabled  to  sever  the  last  remaining  bit  of 
leather  that  secured  the  horse  to  the  shafts.  They 

4 


An  Introduction 

sank  in  the  current  and  freed  his  thrashing  feet. 
Croswell  took  the  bit  in  hand,  for  it  still  remained  in 
the  pony's  mouth,  while  the  tide  swung  them  down- 
ward together. 

Both  man  and  pony  began  to  swim  and  were 
presently  grounded  where  the  river  bank  sloped  easily 
upward  from  the  bed.  It  was  simply  a  matter  of 
wading  then,  and,  with  the  pony  slightly  limping, 
the  two  clambered  up  to  the  level  of  the  road,  face  to 
face  with  the  rider  by  the  bridge. 

For  a  moment  Adam  gazed  upon  the  young 
woman's  face  in  silence.  Then,  for  some  reason  he 
could  not  himself  have  explained,  he  smiled.  He  was 
dripping  and  muddy.  His  face  was  daubed  and  the 
red  on  his  forehead  had  enlarged.  Altogether  he  was 
wellnigh  ludicrous  as  a  spectacle,  nevertheless  the 
girl  was  not  in  the  least  amused. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  presently  observed,  "  is 
this  little  bit  of  dampened  ardor  yours  ?  " 

She  flushed  to  her  temples.  She  knew  him,  despite 
the  mud,  the  streak  across  his  brow,  and  the  fact  they 
had  not  been  introduced  on  the  one  occasion,  a  year 
before,  when  fate  had  drawn  their  orbits  close 
together. 

"  He — no,"  she  answered,  wondering  swiftly  how 
long  he  might  remain ,  in  ignorance  of  her  identity. 
"  But  I  came  to  catch  him  if  I  could.  Is  he  very 
badly  hurt?" 

Such  a  sense  of  mysterious  joy  was  creeping  into 
Adam's  heart,  as  he  looked  upon  her  countenance  and 

5 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

listened  to  her  voice,  that  he  made  no  immediate  reply. 
Then  he  started,  as  if  from  a  dream. 

"  Oh,  no — no — yes — perhaps  lamed  a  little,"  he  re- 
plied. "  That's  all — unless  he's  full  of  Driver." 

"  You  were  very  kind.  Oh,  it  was  splendid !  "  she 
told  him  honestly.  "  He  belongs  to  some  little  friends 
of  mine  who  live  a  mile  up  the  road.  I  certainly  could 
never  have  expected  to  see  you  jump  in  the  river 
like  that." 

Adam  turned  a  trifle  red.  It  was  absolutely  pre- 
posterous to  feel  such  an  unaccountable  madness  de- 
veloping in  his  being. 

"  I'm  very  fond  of  swimming,"  he  said.  "  But  I'm 
afraid  I  spoiled  the  harness.  .  .  .  Shall  I  lead 
him  home,  wherever  he  belongs  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  have  done  so  much  already,"  said  the 
frank  young  woman,  into  whose  eyes  a  marvelous 
brightness  had  stolen.  "  I  had  better  ride  back  for 
someone  to  relieve  you  of  the  care." 

"  Oh,  no — don't  go,"  he  urged  in  boyish  eagerness. 
"  He  ought  to  be  taken  at  once.  Couldn't  I  walk  be- 
side you  and  lead  him?  It  would  make  him  feel 
easier — and  comforted.  Besides,  I  like  to  lead 
ponies." 

"  You're  very  wet,"  she  answered.  "  If  we  had  a 
rope  I  could  lead  him  easily.  You  should  get  some 
dry  clothing  right  away." 

"  I  haven't  a  rope,  but  one  of  the  reins  is  hanging 
on  the  bridge,"  he  told  her  hopefully.  "  If  you  could 

hold  him  just  a  minute " 

6 


An  Introduction 

The  girl  slipped  down  from  her  saddle  instantly 
and  grasped  the  pony's  bit.  Adam  hesitated  momen- 
tarily, to  look  at  her  closely,  in  a  puzzled  way  of 
joyance  and  wonder,  then  hastened  to  the  broken 
rail,  secured  the  rein,  and  returned.  He  was  sure 
that  June,  with  all  her  loveliness,  had  never  produced 
a  day  so  fair  nor  a  goddess  so  wholly  enchanting. 

Now  that  she  stood  upon  the  ground  the  rider  was 
revealed  to  be  just  barely  above  the  medium  height. 
Even  Adam,  a  man,  could  comprehend  that  much  of 
the  gracious,  regal  air  she  bore  was  not  in  the  least 
a  matter  of  height,  but  all  in  the  manner  of  her  poise. 
But  if  one  of  his  glances  instantly  appraised  the 
charm  of  her  slender,  supple  figure,  a  dozen  were  cen- 
tered on  her  glowing  face  where  the  June  day  flowered 
in  her  smile.  For  with  soft  gray  eyes  she  had  black, 
curved  brows,  a  wealth  of  the  wild-rose  tinting  in  her 
cheeks  and  the  brightest  sun-gold  in  her  hair.  With 
it  all,  upon  her  red,  moist  lips,  and  perhaps  as  much 
about  her  eyes  dwelt  a  wistful  look  that  was  half 
a  smile  of  the  most  inviting  graciousness  that  ever 
made  a  woman  sweet  and  trusting.  That  here  was  a 
woman,  strong,  full-lived  and  gracious,  Adam  by  his 
instincts  was  assured.  By  what  strange  power  she 
wove  a  spell  that  swept  all  his  nature  out  through 
the  day,  with  its  fragrances,  bird-song  and  glory, 
he  neither  knew  nor  cared  to  guess,  as  he  hastened 
once  more  where  she  was  standing. 

"  You  may  not  know  it,  but  I  think  you're  hurt," 
she  said  when  he  came  with  the  broken  rein  to  knot 

7 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

it  in  place  about  the  pony's  neck.  "  Your  forehead 
is  cut  and  bleeding."  She  proffered  her  dainty  hand- 
kerchief for  Croswell  to  employ. 

"  Oh,  I  couldn't  use  that,"  he  told  her  boyishly. 
"  It  can't  be  more  than  the  merest  scratch.  Am  I 
all  daubed  up?  " 

"  No,  just  a  little.  Will  you  wait  a  minute, 
please?"  She  left  the  horses  in  his  charge,  went 
quickly  down  to  the  river's  edge,  and,  wetting  the 
handkerchief,  hurried  back  to  hold  it  forth  as  be- 
fore. "  Please  take  it,"  she  added.  "  I  wish  you 
would." 

He  had  one  of  his  own,  all  thoroughly  damp,  but 
her  offer  was  not  to  be  resisted.  A  faint,  enchanting 
fragrance  stole  upon  his  senses  as  he  pressed  the  soft 
fabric  to  his  face. 

"  You  haven't  taken  it  quite  all  off,"  she  imparted 
after  a  moment  of  watching  him  rub  at  his  brow. 
"  Just  there  above  your  eye." 

He  rubbed  at  eye  and  forehead  recklessly.  He 
had  never  been  so  happy  in  his  life. 

"  How's  that?  "  he  inquired.     "  All  off?  " 

"  A  little  still— just  there."  She  stepped  a  trifle 
closer.  "  Perhaps — I  could — if  you  wish —  "  and 
she  took  the  handkerchief  graciously  to  minister  to 
his  needs. 

Despite  the  fact  he  must  have  appeared  like  a  boy 
whose  face  is  being  washed  of  its  natural  accumula- 
tions, Adam  felt  his  heart  becoming  wilder  than  the 
runaway  pony,  as  she  pressed  the  moist  bit  of  linen 

8 


An  Introduction 

on  his  brow.     Her  serious  eyes  were  so  near  to  his 
own ! — and  such  lights  were  in  their  depths ! 

Again  that  intangible  sense  of  recognition  passed 
like  a  mist  before  his  inner  being.  Memory,  tentative 
and  indistinct,  was  weaving  strangely  in  his  mind. 

"  Haven't  I  seen  you  somewhere  before  ?  "  he  asked 
as  she  finished  her  favor.  "  It  seems  to  me  we  must 
have  met — that  somewhere — somehow " 

She  shook  her  head.  She  had  stepped  away  and 
was  smiling  upon  him  with  a  baffling  beam  of 
brightness  in  her  eyes  that  excited  his  soul  to  new 
delights. 

"  I  am  sure  you  never  saw  me,"  she  said,  "  though 
I've  known  Mr.  Adam  Croswell — only  by  sight — for 
just  about  a  year." 

He  could  only  gaze  at  her  blankly ;  his  puzzlement 
increased. 

"  I  confess  I  can't  remember  when " 

"  Or  where  ? — or  who  ?  "  she  added,  archly.  "  I 
am  Chauncey's  sister — Chauncey  Willets*.  When 
you  met  him  that  day  at  Parkleigh,  I  remained  in 
the  carriage  at  the  gate." 

"  I  knew  it !  "  said  Adam.     "  I  knew  I'd  seen — 

I'd  felt  the  same But  your  name  isn't  Willets? 

You're  not  living  over  here  in  Jersey  ?  " 

She  smiled  at  the  frankness  of  his  catechism. 

"  Oh,  no,  we're  still  in  Long  Island,  at  East  Winog. 
Chauncey's  my  half  brother  only,  and  I've  always  pre- 
ferred the  name  of  Rockland." 

"  And  isn't  the  first  name  Beatrice?  " 
9 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

She  laughed  outright,  the  color  burning  warmly 
in  her  face. 

"  Then  perhaps  you  did  see — someone  but  Chaun- 
cey,  after  all." 

His  eyes  were  fairly  dancing  as  he  looked  his 
candid  admiration. 

"  You'll  let  this  pony  introduce  us  now  ?  "  He 
held  out  his  hand. 

Archly  she  answered,  "  If  we  need  it."  And  losing 
her  dainty  palm  and  fingers  in  his  big,  hospitable 
clasp,  she  felt  a  tingling  sense  of  joy  that  completed 
the  current  of  his  own.  "  But  the  pony's  needs — 
he  ought  to  be  taken  home  at  once — if  you'll  put  me 
on  my  horse." 

Adam  adjusted  her  horse's  reins  and  lowered  his 
hand  for  her  boot.  Trembling  with  wild  June  ec- 
stasy for  the  second  in  which  she  confided  her  weight 
to  the  strength  of  his  arm,  he  could  scarcely  have 
told  whether  his  heart  leaped  forth  by  her  dainty 
foot  or  up  in  the  saddle  in  her  keeping. 

From  her  throne  she  looked  brightly  down  upon  him. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said.  "  Shall  I  take  the  pony's 
rein?" 

Adam  answered :  "  I  think  we'd  follow — he'd  fol- 
low, anyway.  But  I'll  hold  the  strap  in  case  we 
meet  another  river." 

They  had  scarcely  more  than  started  when  three 
small  boys  and  one  small  man  came  breathlessly  run- 
ning down  the  shaded  road  in  belated  search  for  the 
pony. 

10 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   WORM   IN    THE    BUD 

BY  Adam  Croswell's  calendar  an  age  had  slipped 
away.  But  Adam  had  fallen  so  deeply  in  love  he 
reckoned  like  a  boy. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  it  was  August's  end,  with  the 
joyous  current  of  his  heart  affairs  swirling  smoothly 
on  its  way,  when  a  new  and  fateful  element  appeared 
upon  the  scene. 

Within  a  week  of  the  meeting  at  the  bridge  Adam 
had  gone  to  East  Winog  and  bought  himself  a  home. 
The  village  was  charming,  its  distance  from  Gotham 
made  commuting  possible,  and  Adam  longed  for  the 
open.  Nevertheless,  he  had  made  the  purchase 
primarily  for  the  reason  that  Beatrice  Rockland  lived 
near  at  hand  and  thoroughly  liked  the  little  hamlet. 

The  move  had  been  consistent  with  Adam's  char- 
acter. He  was  a  strong,  impulsive,  boyish  being, 
direct  and  determined  in  pursuit  of  his  simple  de- 
sires. He  had  come  from  the  West,  where  his  in- 
terests lay,  requiring  Eastern  promotion.  He  re- 
tained a  large  measure  of  that  frankness,  credulity, 
and  generosity  that  only  the  West  may  encourage. 
He  was  a  handsome,  big,  sensitive  product  of  en- 

11 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

viromnent  and  the  hour,  proud  and  light-hearted — a 
combination  of  the  keen,  indomitable  man  of  business 
and  the  fondest  companion  of  the  children. 

He  had  found  in  Beatrice  Rockland  a  full-lifed 
complement  of  all  his  strength,  yet  a  wiser,  more 
restrained,  less  impetuous  nature  than  his  own,  de- 
spite the  warm  flow  in  her  veins.  In  his  rapturous 
spirit  he  had  love  enough  to  spare  to  woo  the  roses 
growing  on  his  lawn  and  the  children  growing  in 
their  homes.  His  roses  had  flourished;  his  tiny 
friends  had  responded  no  less  to  the  sunshine  of  his 
nature;  and  Beatrice  had  felt  her  heart  grow  closer 
and  fonder  to  his  own  than  ever  she  had  dared  to  let 
him  know. 

Meantime  with  Willets,  the  one  relation  Beatrice 
possessed,  he  had  waxed  to  most  brotherly  terms,  de- 
spite the  fact  that  Chauncey  was  not  of  the  sturdy 
type,  financially,  physically,  or  morally.  There  was 
something  woven  in  the  fabric  of  Chauncey's  being, 
however,  that  appealed  to  Adam's  heart.  He  had 
never  stopped  to  analyze  his  feeling  towards  this  way- 
ward brother  of  the  woman  he  loved,  nor  even  to  care 
for  whys  and  wherefores.  He  had  known  him  slightly 
for  a  year  before  the  day  when  he  and  Beatrice  met 
at  the  bridge  across  the  river,  and  had  since,  until 
the  present  week,  responded  to  Chauncey's  endless 
needs  with  generous  loan  after  loan. 

It  was  when  he  had  tired  of  liquidating  Willets' 
gambling  debts,  contracted  in  "  the  street,"  and  had 
smilingly  drawn  the  line  at  last,  with  Chauncey  in 

12 


The  Worm  m  the  Bud 

one  of  his  periodic  throes  of  desperation,  that  the 
new  and  fateful  element  in  all  their  lives  was  quietly 
introduced — for  then  came  Percy  Graham. 

Graham  was  the  one  bit  of  ferment  left  in  her  fate 
when  Beatrice  Rockland,  three  years  before,  had 
thought  she  was  starting  life  anew.  He  had  loved 
her  then ;  he  loved  her  still — in  the  way  of  a  man  of  his 
description.  She  had  managed  to  shake  off  a  cer- 
tain baneful  fascination  he  had  exercised  upon  her, 
apparently  forever.  She  had  hoped  they  might  never 
meet  again,  when  escape  had  been  made  complete. 

To-day  as  he  sat  in  his  smoking  room,  working  his 
spell  on  Chauncey's  will  and  glowing  with  promises 
and  smiles,  he  seemed  to  Willets  a  new-made  man  to 
whom  he  was  eager  to  tie. 

Indeed  Percy  Graham  was  not  without  a  qualitj* 
of  magnetism.  He  was  tall,  slender,  faultlessly 
groomed,  distinctly  suave,  and  handsome.  Neverthe- 
less, he  was  one  of  that  type  already  a  trifle  past 
the  zenith  of  his  powers  while  still  barely  thirty 
years  of  age.  His  strength  and  his  honor  had 
flowered  in  his  youth  and  the  petals  were  ready  to 
fall.  His  one  significant  financial  success  had  been 
made  within  the  year.  It  was  on  the  strength  of  this 
that  he  had  come  to  try  for  Beatrice  again,  with 
Chauncey  for  his  aid. 

He  reached  far  out  across  the  table  and  dropped 
the  ash  from  his  cigarette  in  the  hand  of  a  fine  bronze 
goddess  supplicating  the  heavens  for  rain. 

"  So  it's  just  about  as  I  stated,  after  all,"  he  said. 
IS 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

"  This  fellow  Croswell  has  been  on  hand  since  June 
and  making  himself  pretty  solid.  They're  engaged  ?  " 

Chauncey  pulled  at  his  thin  mustache. 

"  I  suppose  they  are — at  least  to  all  intents  and 
purposes." 

"  And  Beatrice  never  mentions  me?  " 

"  Not  to  me — and  I  guess  not  to  Adam." 

Graham  inhaled  a  long,  rich  breath  from  his 
vanishing  cigarette. 

He  nodded  slowly.  "  All  the  better.  And  don't 
you  mention  me  either,  now  that  I  am  here.  We 
might  as  well  get  down  to  brass  tacks,  Chauncey, 
and  find  out  where  we  stand.  You're  broke  and  in 
debt.  Croswell  has  finally  turned  you  down — Oh, 
I  know ;  it's  an  easy  guess.  He's  got  an  inside  track 
on  me,  with  Beatrice,  which  makes  me  need  your 
help.  And  you  need  mine — and  there  we  are." 

Chauncey  was  puzzled,  and  looked  it.  Vaguely  he 
comprehended  that  Graham  had  not  entirely  sur- 
rendered all  hope  concerning  Beatrice,  yet  nothing 
supplied  him  the  slightest  hint  as  to  what  might  be 
impending. 

"  You  need  my  help  for  what  ?  "  he  said.  "  You 
don't  expect  to  beat  him  out  with  Sis?  " 

Graham  fixed  him  with  a  penetrative  stare. 
"  Wouldn't  you  rather  like  to  see  me  ?  " 

Chauncey  shifted  uneasily.  "  He  might  have 
helped  me — just  this  once — if  he  means  to  be  a  decent 
sort  of  brother !  " 

"There  you  are,"  said  Graham.  "He  didn't. 
14 


The  Worm  in  the  Bud 

I  will.  You're  nearly  five  thousand  to  the  bad. 
You've  thought  of  blowing  out  your  brains.  My 
rights  run  prior  to  Croswell's  anyhow.  We'll  help 
each  other  to  the  limit,  you  and  I.  You'll  need  an 
extra  thousand  to  begin  again  when  you've  squared 
your  little  loss.  Now  let  your  brains  alone,  my  boy, 
and  we'll  swear  our  little  brotherhood  and  start  things 
moving  right  away." 

He  arose  and  went  to  his  desk  for  pen  and 
paper. 

Chauncey  sat  gaping  at  him  blankly.  A  new  sort 
of  terror  was  upon  him.  He  had  not  so  much  as 
thought  of  doing  violence  to  his  brains.  The  sug- 
gestion seized  him  with  a  sickening  potency,  such 
brutal  matter-of-factness  had  accompanied  Graham's 
speech. 

He  was  pale  as  his  host  returned  with  materials  in 
hand. 

"What  are  you  planning  to  do?"  he  said.  "I 
don't  believe  I  understand." 

"  You  will,"  said  Graham,  almost  eating  the  last 
of  his  cigarette  before  he  relinquished  the  stump. 
"  You  didn't  suppose  I  meant  to  stand  by  and  lose 
the  finest  woman  in  the  world?  Not  to  a  man  like 
Croswell.  I  heard  of  this  a  month  ago,  and  I've  heard 
of  him  before.  I've  been  looking  him  up — I  know 
his  tender  spot,  and  everything's  fair  in  love  and 
war." 

He  looked  at  Chauncey  searchingly — and  beheld 
him  ready  clay.  Willets  wet  his  lips.  His  losses  had 

15 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

made  him  nervous  for  a  week;  he  had  never  been 
strong  at  the  best. 

"  You're  going  to  put  up  some  sort  of  a  game  ? 
Couldn't  you  work  it  by  yourself — leave  me  out  of  it, 
Percy — and  make  me  a  loan " 

"  Oh,  let's  be  two  men  of  business,  not  a  pair  of 
kids ! "  Graham  sat  down  so  close  to  Chauncey's 
chair  he  could  place  his  hands  on  the  latter's  knee, 
and  rivet  his  eyes  magnetically.  "  It  isn't  so  very 
long  you  know  since  you  forged — since  you  made  a 
very  creditable  imitation  of  another  person's  chirog- 
raphy,  Chauncey,  and  I  guess  you  could  do  it  again." 

Chauncey  was  whiter  than  before,  and  terribly 
startled.  "  I  can't— I " 

"  Oh,  no  come-back  paper,  don't  you  fret,"  Gra- 
ham interrupted,  smilingly.  "  Nothing  like  that  for 
me.  Simply  a  letter  from  Beatrice  that  you'll  take 
to  Croswell  yourself." 

"  Something — I'll  have  to  write — in  her  hand  ?  " 

"  Something  we'll  compose  here  together  and  you'll 
put  on  her  stationery,  yes." 

Chauncey  pulled  at  the  growth  on  his  lip  and  tried 
to  smile. 

"  That  wouldn't  do  you  any  good  in  the  world. 
They're  too  far  gone  for  that.  No  letter  could " 

"  Leave  it  to  me  to  put  in  the  crimp,"  interrupted 
Percy.  "  This  Croswell  is  eas<y,  if  you  take  him 
right.  He  fell  in  love  with  a  girl  in  Idaho  and  was 
even  engaged,  for  a  week.  She  wrote  him  a  letter 
that  happened  to  be  wrong,  and  he  quit  like  a  load 

16 


The  Worm  m  the  Bud 

of  buckshot  getting  out  of  the  end  of  a  gun.  That 
reminds  me,  he  and  Beatrice  have  written  some  letters, 
of  course  ?  " 

Chauncey  was  helpless.  There  was  no  resistance 
in  him.  So  far  he  had  done  nothing.  He  was  drift- 
ing— to  fetch  up  where  he  might. 

"  I  believe  so — yes,  a  few." 

"  In  our  letter  we'll  ask  for  the  return  of  those, 
for  of  course  he's  kept  them,  every  one.  And  when 
you  come  to  hand  them  back  to  Beatrice,  it  might  be 
as  well  to  mention,  casually,  the  girl  in  Idaho — 
you  know  what  I  mean — as  the  reason  for  his  sudden 
change  of  heart." 

He  began  to  write.  Chauncey  watched  him, 
fascinated,  unable  to  assert  a  resisting  will.  The 
other  man's  method  of  sweeping  him  along,  assuming 
to  have  his  consent  to  the  plan,  worked  something 
akin  to  paralysis  of  all  his  weak  control.  Yet  his 
mind  was  filled  with  the  gravest  doubts  that  Graham's 
plan  could  succeed. 

"  But,  Percy — don't  you  see "  he  said.  "  You 

really  don't  know  how  completely  Beatrice  and  Adam 
— I  don't  think  anything  could  part  them  now. 
Even  if  Adam  should  get  what  we  write — the  very 
first  minute  they  meet  again " 

"  They're  not  going  to  meet — that's  what  I'm 
banking  on.  We'll  make  it  too  strong  for  that." 
He  continued  to  write  as  if  the  affair  were  one  of  the 
utmost  certainty.  Nevertheless,  his  one  concern  lay 
precisely  where  Chauncey  had  mentioned.  He  was 

17 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

risking  all  on  the  single  throw,  but  meant  to  be  hid- 
den away  from  sight  should  his  simple  expedient  fail. 

"  Just  glance  through  a  book  or  anything  you 
like,  while  I  work  this  out  by  myself,"  he  added,  put- 
ting forth  his  hand  to  grope  for  another  cigarette. 
"  It's  got  to  be  short  but  a  thing  of  art.  I'll  coach 
you  later  on." 

Chauncey  arose  and  fumbled  with  his  hat. 

"  But  I  don't  know,  Percy,  that  I'd  like  to  mix 
up " 

Graham  wheeled  on  him  calmly.  "  Don't  you  need 
at  least  six  thousand  dollars?  Can  you  get  it  from 
Croswell,  with  all  you  owe  him  now?  He's  in  trouble 
financially,  you  take  it  from  me.  What's  the  use  of 
talking  buncombe  ?  " 

He  wrote  for  a  time.  "  And  we  might  as  well 
understand  each  other,  Chauncey,  first  as  last.  I'll 
give  you  a  check  for  five  hundred  dollars  to-day — 
the  balance  when  the  goods  are  delivered." 

The  feeble  struggles  Chauncey  made  thereafter 
deceived  not  even  himself.  And  when  he  began  to 
consent  to  the  scheme,  he  fell  like  a  being  of  straw. 


18 


CHAPTER  III 

A  BOLT   FROM   THE  BLUE 

ADAM  sat  staring  fixedly  before  him.  The  moment 
for  Chauncey  was  fraught  with  intensity  and  doubt. 
He  watched  his  victim's  face  whiten,  the  light  in  his 
eyes  dull  leadenly. 

The  blow  had  gone  home  with  staggering  weight. 
There  was  nothing  for  Willets  to  do  but  to  sit  there, 
nervously  awaiting  the  next  developments. 

In  the  silence  which  had  dropped  like  a  pall  as 
Adam  concluded  his  reading  of  the  note  purporting 
to  have  come  from  Beatrice,  the  laughter  of  children 
came  shrilly  on  the  air.  It  was  merely  a  group  of 
Adam's  little  friends,  frolicking  wildly  at  their 
"  party."  Their  joyousness  smote  on  his  ears  in 
mockery,  stricken  as  he  was  at  the  citadel  of  all  his 
dearest  hopes. 

The  letter  that  Willets  had  brought  and  delivered 
remained  in  Adam's  listless  grasp.  His  hand  hung 
limply  down  across  his  knee  like  a  strong  thing  sud- 
denly weakened.  When  at  length  he  spoke,  his  ut- 
terance was  hoarse  and  colorless — a  note  whereby  his 
visitor  knew  how  hard  indeed  he  was  hit. 

"  Do  you  know  what  she  says  in  this  message?  " 

19 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

Chauncey  wet  his  parching  mouth  before  he 
answered. 

"  No — but — she  let  me  half  way  guess." 

The  utterly  despicable  nature  of  Graham's  plot,  to 
which,  for  mere  money,  he  had  lent  himself,  he  forced 
to  subsidence  in  his  thoughts. 

Adam  continued  to  stare  straight  before  him,  with 
eyes  that  saw  nothing  save  a  blurred,  altered  image 
of  Beatrice  Rockland,  bidding  him  adieu  at  the  end 
of  their  walk  and  their  insignificant  tiff  of  the 
afternoon. 

"  I  could  hardly  believe  this,  Chauncey,"  he  added, 
in  his  hollow  utterance,  "  if  it  had  not  come  like  this — 
written  by  herself  and  sent  by  you  to-night."  He 
knew  how  much  more  than  an  ordinary  sisterly  at- 
tachment was  the  fondness  that  Beatrice  felt  in  her 
heart  for  this,  her  only  blood  relation. 

Apprehension  attacked  young  Willets  abruptly — 
an  acute  alarm  for  the  consequences,  should  the  ruse 
be  discovered,  and  fail.  So  much  depended  on  Cros- 
well's  pride,  his  acceptance  of  the  message  as  a  final 
word  from  Beatrice. 

Fortunately  Croswell  knew  nothing  of  Graham's 
existence,  his  return  to  the  scene,  or  his  former  re- 
lationship with  Beatrice.  He  would  entertain  no  sus- 
picions. Nevertheless,  Willets  felt  the  necessity  of 
driving  the  blade  further  home. 

"  I  know,"  he  said,  pulling  at  his  thin  mustache, 
"  but  women  are  queer.  .  .  .  She  asked  me  to 
tell  you  she'd  like  all  her  letters  returned." 

20 


A  Bolt  from  the  Blue 

Adam  sat  back  in  his  chair  and  passed  his  hand 
across  his  eyes.  Despite  his  youth  he  appeared  quite 
old,  in  the  grayness  of  his  mask. 

"  Yes,  she  mentions  it  here."  He  loosely  waved 
the  letter.  "  I  should  probably  have  thought  of  the 
matter  with  no  reminders.  .  .  .  You  might  as 
well  take  them  to-night." 

He  did  not  move  from  his  chair,  and  Willets  again 
wet  his  lips. 

"  Will  you — write  a  reply  ?  " 

Adam  shook  his  head.     "  That  isn't  my  way." 

He  did  not  add  that  the  sting  to  his  pride  would 
utterly  forbid — that  he  could  not  and  would  not  beg 
from  Beatrice  a  better  reason  than  the  one  s)ie  had 
offered  in  this  letter — a  more  reasonable  explanation 
— a  chance  to  readjust  the  suddenly  broken  relation- 
ship, but  Willets  understood. 

He  was  almost  sorry  for  his  victim,  now  that  the 
thing  had  actually  begun  its  poisoning  work.  But 
his  own  desperation,  his  losses  in  the  market,  the  as- 
sistance Graham  had  offered  as  the  price  of  this 
trifling  bit  of  interference,  overwhelmed  all  else 
within  him.  Immediate  gain  was  his  first  con- 
sideration, and  Adam  could  spare  no  funds.  His 
heart  now  rocked  in  surges  as  he  sought  full 
confirmation  of  what  he  had  heard  from  Croswell's 
lips. 

"  You — mean  you  won't  write  her — at  all?  " 

Adam  shook  his  head.     "  What's  the  use?  " 

He  rose  from  his  place  beside  the  table,  stiffly.  His 
21 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

eyes  were  glassily  blurred.  Walking  slowly  towards 
the  window  and  his  desk,  he  paused,  turned  about  as 
if  to  speak,  then  glanced  at  the  note  still  held  in  his 
hand  and  proceeded  on  his  way. 

At  the  desk  he  worked  in  silence,  rapidly.  When 
he  came  again  to  the  center  of  the  room  he  held  a 
neatly  tied  package  of  letters  in  his  grasp. 

"  These  are  all  I  have,"  he  imparted  dully.  "  I 
will  only  keep  the  note." 

Willets  was  standing.  He,  too,  was  pale.  He 
had  hoped  to  receive  his  forgery  at  once  and  destroy 
it  on  leaving  the  house.  But  he  dared  not  risk  an 
argument  or  excite  the  slightest  suspicion. 

"  I You  know  how  I  must  feel  about  this 

wretched  business,"  he  enunciated  thickly,  taking 
the  letters  offered  by  his  victim.  "  I  wish  I  could 
make  it  easier." 

Sounds  of  the  children's  laughter  came  gayly 
through  the  doors. 

"  Thanks,"  said  Adam,  in  his  altered  tone. 
"  That's  all  right.  I  guess  it  won't  prove  fatal — 
and  the  West  has  been  demanding  my  attention  for  a 
week." 

Willets'  heart  bounded  quickly  in  excitement. 

"  You  are  thinking  of  going  away  ?  " 

Adam  attempted  a  smile.     It  was  ghastly. 

"  I  never  mar  a  landscape  after  I  find  I  spoil  the 
composition." 

The  delicate  satire  could  scarcely  be  lost  on  Willets, 
involving  as  it  did  his  step-sister's  not  inconsiderable 

22 


A   Bolt  from  the  Blue 

gifts  as  a  painter.  But  he  did  not  smile — he  could 
not  have  smiled  to  save  his  soul. 

"Then — this  is  good-by?  I'll  see  you  again? 
You  won't  get  away  very  soon  ?  " 

"  To-morrow,"  said  Adam.     He  held  out  his  hand. 

Willets  took  it,  not  without  certain  qualms  of 
shame. 

"  I  was  hoping  that  we  might  meet  again,"  he  said, 
"  but  of  course — I  suppose ' 

"  Oh,  this  needn't  make  any  difference  between  you 
and  me,"  said  Adam,  dully.  "  I'll  be  back  some  day, 
and  then — why  come  and  see  me — certainly — come 
and  see  me." 

"  I  will — I  will,"  said  the  guilty  youth,  barely 
checking  a  generous  impulse  to  confess  all  the 
miserable  lie.  And  thinking  that  Adam  took  it  very 
well  indeed  and  would  presently  recover  from  the  hurt, 
he  added :  "  Is  there  anything  you  think  of  I 
could  do?" 

Adam  looked  at  him  fairly — as  he  had  not  done 
since  the  man  had  called  him  here  to  this  room  and 
delivered  this  death  blow  to  his  happiness.  In  his 
eyes  burned  the  singular  light  emitted  by  pain.  There 
was  something  indescribably  boyish  and  sweet  in  his 
look,  behind  the  blur  and  glassiness. 

"  Don't  mind  me,"  he  said.  "  There's  nothing  for 
anyone  to  do.  You  couldn't  tell  me  why  this  had 
to  happen." 

To  Willets  it  seemed  as  if  his  victim's  gaze  must 
penetrate  his  very  soul  and  scan  every  wrinkle  of  his 

23 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

conscience.  That  Adam  would  read  the  whole  black 
truth,  or  enough  to  flee  to  Beatrice  herself  and  learn 
of  all  the  perfidy,  was  a  fear  that  assailed  him  with 
sickening  force.  He  felt  himself  utterly  confused. 
He  stammered  helplessly : 

"  Why — no — a  woman ' 

"  Don't  attempt  it,  Chauncey,"  Adam  interrupted. 
"  What's  the  use  ?  I'm  sorry  you  had  to  be  involved 
— your  sympathies — your  worry.  But  thank  you  for 
your  fellow  feeling  all  the  same.  .  .  .  May  I 
offer  you  a  drink  ?  " 

"  No — thanks — no,  thanks,"  said  Willets,  nerv- 
ously. "  I've  got — to  get  along."  He  hesitated  for 
a  moment,  his  gaze  upon  the  floor.  "  Shall  I  carry 
any  message  back — to  Sis  ?  " 

Adam  shook  his  head,  smiling  once  more  in  that 
ghastly,  stricken  manner. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  say.  The  matter  admits  of 
no  argument.  There  is  nothing  to  carry  but  those." 
He  waved  towards  the  letters  in  Chauncey's  grasp. 
Once  more  he  held  out  his  hand.  "  So  long." 

"  Good-by,"  said  Chauncey,  shaking  hands,  and 
he  went  at  once  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A    COUP    DE    GRACE 

CROSWELL,  left  standing  there  alone,  continued 
dully  staring  at  the  floor.  The  note  in  his  hand,  the 
brief,  harsh  forgery  that  had  wrought  a  crisis  in  his 
life,  drew  back  his  purposeless  gaze  at  last,  but  he 
did  not  read  it  anew. 

His  love  had  been  the  strongest  thing  in  all  his 
big,  strong  life.  Passion  and  tenderness,  vital  fire 
and  sympathy,  had  welded  themselves  and  welded 
him  with  them  into  every  thought  that  centered  in 
and  clustered  upon  the  being  of  Beatrice  Rockland, 
mirrored  in  his  mind.  His  love  had  swept  her  from 
her  feet  far  more  than  he  knew  or  had  ever  dared 
to  hope.  It  had  hurled  him  bodily  past  all  anchor- 
age of  moderation — past  harborage  of  peace — past 
sight  of  land  and  out  upon  the  open  sea  of  things 
tumultuous.  He  had  welcomed  it  all  in  its  tidal 
might  and  rejoiced  in  its  vast  dominion  over  all  his 
forces,  never  before  enslaved.  He  had  loved  like  a 
boy  and  a  man  in  one — with  the  ardor  of  the  one  and 
the  prowess  of  the  other.  He  had  loved  her  more 
than  he  had  ever  permitted  her  to  know — and  this 
was  his  only  consolation. 

25 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

All  the  long  struggle  of  his  life,  with  hands  and 
brain,  to  rise  to  a  worthy  position,  passed  in  review 
before  his  vision.  Heartaches,  disappointments,  de- 
feats, chagrins — all  the  horde  of  assailants,  beaten 
down  times  without  number — how  puny  they  seemed 
in  the  shadow  of  this,  the  wreckage  of  his  world ! 

His  heart  had  gone  out  of  him  utterly.  No 
strength  of  arms  or  back  availed  to  defy  this  blow. 
It  is  not  such  a  thing — this  human  love — as  strength 
may  wall  about.  His  pride  remained  to  sustain  his 
poise,  but  his  soul  was  a-quiver  with  hurt.  The 
pillars  of  his  might  were  loose  and  shattered.  Man 
as  he  was  in  the  world  of  men,  he  was  boyish  still  at 
the  core  of  his  heart,  where  anguish  had  fastened  its 
talons. 

The  blow  had  come  on  the  heels  of  lesser  shocks, 
whereby  failure  of  one  of  his  vital  business  projects 
was  impending.  He  could  not  believe  that  Beatrice 
— aware  of  the  failure  of  his  fortune  to  arrive  be- 
cause of  disaster  to  his  schemes — had  decided  on  this 
coup  de  grace  from  motives  sordid  in  their  nature. 
He  could  not  think  her  guilty,  quite,  of  this.  But  it 
seemed  a  gratuitous  irony  of  fate  that  accumulated 
crises  should  be  hurled  upon  him,  head  and  heart, 
within  a  time  so  brief. 

He  folded  the  note  in  its  creases,  presently,  car- 
ried it  slowly  to  the  window-side  desk,  and  placed  it 
in  a  drawer.  Dimly  to  his  senses  came  the  shrill, 
clear  laughter  and  voices  of  the  children.  The  party 
had  been  all  but  forgotten.  In  the  light  of  the  mes- 

26 


A   Coup  de  Grace 

sage  that  Willets  had  brought,  Adam  finally  under- 
stood, or  thought  he  understood,  why  it  was  that 
Beatrice  had  refused  to  be  one  of  the  party  here  this 
evening.  Her  excuses,  made  in  the  afternoon,  seemed 
paltry  now,  and  insincere.  He  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. After  all,  what  did  it  matter  what  excuse  she 
had  employed,  with  this  present  outcome  imminent? 

Once  more  he  smiled.  How  secure  he  had  felt  in 
this  wonderful,  glorifying  love !  It  had  been  won- 
derful, and  glorious,  out-goldening  gold,  out-daz- 
zling the  sun,  out-starring  the  stars,  in  lustrous 
myriads  of  hopes  and  empires  of  the  soul.  And  now, 
what  ashes  of  rose  leaves  lay  within  his  hand,  and 
how  empty  was  his  heart's  vast  firmament ! 

What  was  the  use  of  effort,  ambition,  kin  with  his 
kind  or  plans  of  a  future  to  be?  He  had  built  to- 
wards a  future,  hope  by  hope,  piling  effort  on  effort 
as  units  in  the  dream-fair  palace  where  Beatrice  was 
always  to  have  reigned  as  queen — and  the  structure 
was  empty  and  scorned. 

Halting,  advancing,  moving  without  purpose  to- 
wards the  table  again,  he  suddenly  turned,  at  a  sound 
in  the  hall,  and  faced  the  door  in  time  to  behold  it 
abruptly  open  and  a  bright  little  figure  appear. 

It  was  only  a  child,  a  golden-haired,  bright-eyed 
mite  of  a  girl  exceptionally  small  for  her  age.  She 
ran  at  him  swiftly,  in  an  impulse  of  childish  delight, 
calling  out  in  joy. 

Instantly  Adam  was  changed,  transfigured  by  the 
meed  of  comfort  that  she  offered.  He  sank  on  a 

27 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

knee  to  clasp  her  to  his  breast  as  if  she  could  fill  all 
the  wound  in  his  bosom  with  her  honest,  bright 
heart  full  of  affection. 

"  You  naughty  Uncle  Adam !  "  she  scolded  at  him 
prettily.  "  You  said  you'd  come  back  in  just  a  min- 
ute, and  you  never,  never  came !  " 

"  I  will — I'm  coming  now,"  he  said,  forcing  a 
smile  to  his  lips.  "  I'm  coming  to  play  with  you 
now." 

Meantime,  Willets  went  home  to  his  sister  with 
emotions  hopelessly  entangled.  He  was  fond  of  her, 
certainly,  but  always  in  his  own  peculiar  way.  He 
had  utilized  her  consistently  for  years,  fattening  his 
selfishness  perennially  by  the  process. 

He  was  using  her  now,  in  a  manner  far  more  vital 
to  herself,  her  happiness  and  her  future  well-being 
than  to  anything  his  own  superficial  life  could  pos- 
sibly develop.  The  crisis  in  his  speculations  was  no 
more  urgent,  no  more  fateful  than  many  that  had 
gone  before,  and  this  was  the  total  of  his  worry. 

The  immediate  effect  to  be  produced  by  his  lies, 
together  with  years  of  attendant  results,  he  took 
little  time  to  consider.  He  was  almost  sorry  for 
Adam  and  more  for  Beatrice.  Notwithstanding  this 
lingering  vestige  of  a  nobler  emotion,  however,  his 
own  individual  plight  and  needs  seemed  far  more  im- 
portant than  the  wreck  he  might  make  of  the  love 
and  lives  of  both. 

If  he  argued  at  all  it  was  only  for  himself  and 
against  the  probability  of  serious  results,  either  to 

28 


A  Coup  de  Grace 

his  sister  or  his  friend.  Adam,  he  was  sure,  had  fallen 
easily,  and'  was  far  from  mortally  hurt.  Beatrice 
might  be  effected  temporarily,  but  broken  hearts  were 
fictional,  anything  but  modern,  while  from  disap- 
pointed love  the  recoveries  were  prompt  and  invariable. 

Nevertheless,  with  Beatrice  he  underwent  a  far 
more  sickening  appreciation  of  his  infamy,  a  far  more 
intimate  cognizance  of  her  pain  and  wounded  pride 
than  he  had  with  the  man  she  loved.  He  felt,  how- 
ever, he  had  gone  so  far  that  retreat  was  out  of  the 
question. 

The  blow  he  delivered  was  as  blunt,  direct,  and  un- 
expected as  that  which  Adam  had  received.  What 
invention  he  added  to  the  bald,  sufficient  fact  that 
Adam  returned  her  letters  and  refused  to  send  a  mes- 
sage, concerned  the  young  woman  in  the  West  once 
connected  with  Adam's  affairs. 

Beatrice  had  been  the  happiest  woman  in  the  world 
— of  that  she  was  certain.  She  had  suddenly  become 
the  most  utterly  stricken  and  disillusioned.  She  was 
far  more  hurt,  far  more  stunned  than  Adam  had  been, 
yet  exhibited  far  less  emotion.  She  was  pale  enough, 
as  she  sat  in  her  chair,  mechanically  handling  the 
letters,  but  to  ordinary  discernment  she  was  calm. 
Her  weakness,  her  heart-ache,  her  shame  and  wounded 
pride  she  could  mask  in  her  feminine  manner. 

She  said  almost  nothing.  Utterance  she  knew 
must  betray  her  instantly,  once  it  went  beyond  the 
rigidest  control.  Nevertheless,  as  Adam,  she  felt, 
had  been  unfair,  thus  to  send  her  his  message  so 

29 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

baldly,  she  determined  on  a  course  of  her  own  that 
she  deemed  the  case  demanded. 

She  said  to  Chauncey,  quietly :  "  Will  you  take 
Mr.  Croswell  a  note  ?  " 

Chauncey  had  hoped  the  incident  was  closed.  He 
hated  the  whole  distressing  business.  Ashamed  of 
himself  and  all  but  detesting  Graham,  who  had  swung 
once  more  into  Beatrice's  orbit  with  all  this  plan  for 
eliminating  Adam,  he  would  gladly  have  fled  from 
East  Winog,  to  drop  alike  all  thought  upon  results 
and  all  responsibility.  He  was  forced  to  go  on  to  the 
end,  at  least  to-night. 

"  I  will — of  course — certainly,"  he  answered. 
"Do  you  mean  to-morrow  morning?"  He  had  not 
imparted  Adam's  intention  of  leaving  the  following 
day. 

"  To-night,"  said  Beatrice.     "  I'll  write  it  now." 

It  was  a  woman's  way  to  seek  a  final  word,  to  seek 
the  whyfores  of  the  cruelty,  to  declare  how  gladly  she 
would  have  offered  a  friend's  congratulations  on  his 
happiness  of  heart  in  another,  more  cherished  direc- 
tion. He  had  mentioned  a  possible  trip  to  the  West, 
and  she  thought  she  understood. 

She  wrote  at  once,  without  the  need  of  rising  from 
the  chair  beside  the  table.  She  wrote  rapidly,  for  in 
no  other  manner  could  her  fingers  have  driven  the  pen. 

Chauncey  watched  her,  marveling  as  ever  at  her 
strength.  Her  paleness  did  not  escape  him,  but  he 
was  certain  she  was  thoroughly  composed. 

"  You're  a  dear,  good  brother,"  she  presently  said, 
SO 


A  Coup  de  Grace 

as  she  sealed  and  addressed  the  envelope.  "  Don't 
wait  for  an  answer  to-night." 

Chauncey  received  the  missive,  and  colored  to  his 
ear-tips  with  shame. 

"  All  right,"  he  said,  and  leaving  the  house  he 
strode  off  guiltily,  walked  a  dozen  blocks,  halted  in 
momentary  indecision,  then  tore  up  the  note  to  the 
tiniest  bits  and  strewed  them  widely  on  the  breeze. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  TREACHERY  COMPLETE 

ADAM  left  orders  to  rent  his  house  and  departed 
the  following  day. 

He  went  with  no  more  than  a  suitcase  in  his  hand, 
heading  due  west  for  the  mines.  He  was  almost 
gratified  to  possess  a  business  crisis,  of  grave 
significance  in  his  worldly  affairs,  to  which  to  devote 
his  energies  and  thoughts.  A  fight  was  more  than 
merely  welcome — it  was  what  he  most  urgently 
required. 

Beatrice,  meantime,  was  waiting — for  the  letter 
that  would  never  be  sent.  She  had  passed  a  night 
of  sleepless  wondering — wondering  and  pain.  She 
had  conjured  up  all  the  trifling,  unexplained  actions 
noted  in  Adam  for  a  week.  They  had  seemed  insig- 
nificant before.  She  had  ascribed  them,  accurately 
and  wisely,  to  his  business  worries,  of  which  he  had 
made  scanty  mention.  Now  they  loomed  with  new 
meaning,  against  the  present  facts.  They  had  been 
the  indications  of  a  change  of  heart — and  she  had 
so  blindly  misread  them! 

Nevertheless,  it  was  hard  to  understand  the  abrupt- 
ness of  his  change — the  crudity  of  the  method  he  had 

32 


chosen  to  sever  their  relationship.  It  was  wholly  un- 
like him.  A  blow  frcm  his  fist  would  have  been  no 
more  unexpected,  no  more  inexplicable.  Yet  here  was 
the  evidence,  unanswerable — her  letters  returned  with- 
out a  line — and  the  baldest  of  verbal  messages  en- 
trusted to  her  brother. 

It  is  strange  how  unconvinced  is  love — how  it  clings 
to  a  hope,  no  matter  how  irrational.  All  that  long 
night  through  it  had  seemed  to  Beatrice  her  happi- 
ness must  once  more  be  whole  in  the  morning.  Some- 
thing must  happen  to  make  it  so.  At  least,  if  she 
could  not  have  her  love  again,  and  Adam  with  it, 
big  and  strong  and  true,  at  least  she  could  have  her 
trust  in  him  restored.  She  must  have  that.  If  some- 
one else  was  to  have  his  love,  at  least  she  must  have 
her  faith,  her  estimate  of  his  character  confirmed. 
She  could  not  be  robbed  of  his  love  and  of  her  own 
vast  confidence  in  his  sterling  manhood  together. 
In  the  desolation  of  her  hopelessness  she  told  herself 
that  all  she  wanted  now  was  to  know  that  he  was  and 
always  would  be  the  honest  and  generous  Adam  to 
whom  she  had  given  her  heart. 

Forlorn  and  meager  as  her  wishes  were,  they  were 
destined  to  be  crushed.  Adam,  unaware  of  the  fact 
that  her  note  had  been  written,  received  full  blame 
for  heartless  negligence.  She  learned  at  noon  that 
he  had  gone,  without  so  much  as  a  word.  Without 
the  slightest  reason  to  suspect  her  brother,  Beatrice 
sustained  this  added  blow  through  offended  pride, 
when  mere  courage  might  have  failed.  But  the  hurt 

33 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

went  all  through  her  being.  The  thing  he  had  done 
could  never  be  forgiven. 

It  might  have  been  forgivable  for  Adam  to  cease 
his  love.  But  to  leave  like  this,  making  no  answer 
to  her  harmless  note,  was  never  to  be  forgotten.  The 
sting  to  her  pride  was  the  smart,  at  last,  that  sus- 
tained her  in  her  wounds.  Even  anger  has  its  uses. 
It  may  not  heal  an  aching  heart,  but  at  least  it 
diverts  the  attention. 

In  her  first  reaction  Beatrice  was  righteously  in- 
dignant. But  her  fine,  true  womanhood  went  far  too 
deep  for  the  superficial  emotions  to  remain  long 
dominant.  Her  pride  and  her  anger  were  justifiable 
— they  were  parts  of  her  full-lifed  nature — but  love, 
after  all,  had  been  her  ascendant  star,  and  her 
anguish  returned  for  that.  Despite  it  all  she  loved 
him  still,  and  this  it  was  that  made  her  weep,  when 
anger  had  all  been  expended.  And  the  thought  that 
she  must  thus  love  him  till  the  end  was  a  torture 
hard  to  endure. 

It  was  while  she  was  wounded,  comfortless,  and  still 
accusing,  that  Graham  appeared  and  began  his  subtle 
campaign.  A  shrewd  and  plausible  being  was  Gra- 
ham, gifted  with  an  exceptional  comprehension  of  hu- 
man nature  and  its  weaknesses.  He  had  estimated 
young  Willets'  moral  bulwarks  unerringly.  His 
method  of  procedure  with  Beatrice  was  no  less 
sagacious  or  keen. 

He  did  not,  for  instance,  commit  the  error  of  push- 
ing his  suit  while  her  heart  continued  sore.  He  did 

34 


The  Treachery  Complete 

not  offend  her  sensibilities  with  thoughts  of  another 
man  in  Adam's  relation  to  herself  while  her  indigna- 
tion with  the  whole  male  sex  must  naturally  have 
remained  at  its  height.  With  many  insidious  kind- 
nesses he  assumed  his  old-time  position  in  her  thoughts 
— for  time  had  been,  in  the  not  too  distant  past,  when 
she  had  almost  thought  she  loved  him  with  the  mating 
passion.  He  was  generous,  offhand,  and  unalarm- 
ing.  What  was  more  to  the  purpose,  he  was  patient 
and  consistently  scheming. 

In  his  code  of  life  Graham  knew  but  one  mandate — 
achieve  the  object  coveted.  He  was  quite  without 
scruple.  In  his  moral  obliquity  of  vision  he  justified 
any  needed  means  towards  the  end  he  might  desire. 
In  his  present  plan  he  had  permitted  no  more  hesi- 
tancy concerning  the  destruction  of  Croswell's  hap- 
piness or  character  than  he  had  entertained  towards 
corrupting  Chauncey. 

With  Beatrice  his  maneuvers  were  far  more  subtle. 
She  had  formerly  understood  his  insufficiencies;  he 
meant  to  show  that  he  had  grown  more  worthy  of  her 
love. 

Women  surrender  to  persistence,  to  pique,  to  a 
species  of  indifference  to  fate  when  failure  has  come 
to  the  one  great  enterprise  on  which  the  heart  has  set 
its  fondest  hopes.  Graham  was  quietly  insistent. 
Beatrice  was  piqued  to  recklessness  in  her  heart's 
sheer  desolation  and  disgust. 

The  day  arrived  when  she  silently  permitted  Percy 
Graham  to  tell  her  again  of  his  love.  A  far  more 

85 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

vital  hour  arrived  in  which  she  permitted  him  at  last 
to  make  her  his  wife.  It  was  all  far  more  a  matter 
of  permitting  than  of  giving  her  actual  consent.  She 
did  consent,  however,  and  gladly,  to  be  taken  abroad 
at  once.  Graham,  of  course,  continued  kind,  for  the 
man  was  an  artist  in  his  love,  and  in  his  way  a  lover. 
To  Chauncey  was  delegated  the  privilege  of  in- 
forming Adam  Croswcll  of  events.  He  managed  the 
business  with  brevity.  His  wire  to  Adam  stated  the 
baldest  facts : 

"  Beatrice  and  Percy  married  Monday,  sailed  for 
Europe  to-day. 

"  CHAUNCEY." 

Then  even  he  was  lost  from  the  scope  of  Graham's 
plans.  He  had  barely  been  kept  afloat,  financially, 
during  all  this  period  of  fate's  uncertainty.  He  had 
then  been  obliged  to  content  himself  with  half  his 
promised  reward.  Graham  dropped  the  curtain  of 
the  gray  Atlantic  between  his  household  and  the 
Western  world,  to  swing  out  at  once  upon  an  orbit  of 
his  own  that  was  fraught  from  the  first  with  disaster. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    LAMB    ANP    THE    LIONS 

OROSWELL  could  not  have  been  the  man  he  was,  self- 
made,  vigorous,  flung  out  upon  the  cycle  of  life  with 
exceptional  momentum,  and  remain  long  away  from 
the  center  of  things  when  once  he  had  lived  in  New 
York. 

He  had  stemmed  the  flood  of  disaster  to  his  for- 
tunes. He  had  done  even  more,  since  the  majesty 
and  power  of  all  those  forces  which  for  a  time  had 
threatened  to  sweep  all  his  holdings  away  had  been 
turned  to  account  and  harnessed  to  his  wheel  and 
made  to  serve  rather  than  wreck  him. 

He  returned  in  December,  secure  financially  at  last 
— and  was  glad  to  lose  himself  in  the  vastness  of  the 
city's  population.  Not  only  did  his  mining  interests 
require  his  presence  in  Manhattan,  but  work  served 
his  energy  of  purpose.  It  used  him,  tired  him,  made 
him  strong,  and  brought  him  diversion  from  himself. 
He  had  leased  his  modest  Long  Island  home ;  he  estab- 
lished himself  in  comfortable  bachelor  apartments, 
accessible  to  all  the  city's  offerings,  and  began,  as  it 
were,  anew. 

37 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

An  item  in  one  of  the  city's  commercial  chronicles 
announced  his  presence  in  the  town.  It  came  to 
young  Willets'  attention,  somewhat  belated,  at  a 
moment  of  his  periodic  fright  and  despair.  The 
jaws  he  had  once  more  entered — those  merciless  Wall 
Street  jaws,  that  break  men's  souls  and  crush  their 
hearts  and  crunch  out  life  and  hope — were  closing 
inexorably  upon  him.  He  knew,  too  late,  the  fullness 
of  Graham's  perfidy,  yet  he  did  not,  of  course,  ap- 
preciate the  poetic  justice  invited  by  his  own  par- 
ticipation in  the  infamy  practiced  on  Adam  and  a 
sister  who  had  also  been  a  friend. 

In  a  frantic  hope  of  regaining  his  feet  through 
the  man  he  had  wronged  to  the  uttermost  possibility, 
he  almost  sweated  blood  till  he  found  where  Adam  had 
opened  his  office.  Six  times  in  a  single  afternoon  he 
besieged  the  place,  in  vain.  The  following  morn- 
ing, over  the  'phone,  he  secured  an  appointment  at 
last. 

One  condition  only  Adam  exacted — not  a  word  of 
allusion  to  things  of  the  past  was  ever  to  be  uttered 
between  them.  Beatrice,  he  told  himself,  was  blotted 
from  his  heart.  The  fact  that  he  dared  not  hear  her 
name,  and  dreaded  this  interview  with  Chauncey,  he 
explained  upon  grounds  of  his  own.  Chauncey,  for 
his  part  more  than  glad  to  avoid  a  topic  that  shamed 
his  better  being,  consented  gladly  to  forget  the  past, 
and  came  with  the  present  only  in  his  mind,  and  no 
courage  to  question  the  future. 

Adam  received  him  in  his  private  room,  with  its 
38 


The  Lamb  and  the  Lions 

entrance  on  the  hall.  Both  men  were  altered 
Chauncey  bore  all  the  nerve-made  signs  of  a  being 
on  the  rack.  His  face  was  pinched,  not  with  wanness, 
but  with  inward  intensity.  His  eyes  were  luminous 
of  wildness.  They  were  signs  that  Croswell  knew. 

Adam  himself  was  sobered.  The  glad,  bright  light 
had  faded  from  his  eyes,  and  gravity  had  aged  him 
over  soon.  On  his  clean-shaved  face,  where  laughter 
and  joy  had  started  curved  engravings,  business  was 
etching  deeper  angles.  He  was  fresh,  however,  self- 
composed,  and  keen  in  every  faculty.  It  was  a  hand- 
some figure  of  power  and  manly  attributes  he 
presented  for  inspection. 

The  meeting  was  one  of  constraint.  Neither  man 
was  certain  of  his  ground.  Chauncey  had  a  favor  to 
implore ;  Adam  had  heart  wounds  to  heal — and  sight 
of  her  brother  tore  them  open.  Adam  had  been 
seated  at  his  desk  when  the  visitor  was  ushered  to  his 
presence.  He  had  promptly  resumed  his  chair  when 
their  handshake  and  nods  had  been  concluded. 

"  Sit  down — sit  down,"  he  urged,  in  continued 
formality,  turning  to  the  letters  on  his  desk.  "  I 
must  just  glance  through  these  few  remaining  sheets 
and  then  I'm  at  your  disposal." 

"  Why,  sure.  Go  right  ahead,"  said  Chauncey, 
pulling  at  his  thin  mustache,  and  he  took  a  near-by 
chair. 

Adam  glanced  once  at  the  troubled  face,  from  his 
cursory  scanning  of  the  letters.  Then  he  rang  a  bell, 
delivered  the  correspondence  with  a  word  of  instruc- 

39 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

tion  to  the  clerk  who  hastened  in,  and  pulled  out  a 
drawer  of  his  desk. 

"  You'll  wnoke  ?  "  he  inquired.  "  Cigarettes, 
Chauncey,  or  cigar  ?  " 

"  Thanks,  a  cigarette,"  said  Willets,  who  hoped  to 
conceal  a  portion  of  his  nervousness  behind  a  cloud  of 
fumes.  "  You  haven't  been  back  very  long?  " 

"  Just  long  enough  to  land  in  the  thick  of  accumu- 
lated affairs,"  Adam  answered  briskly.  "  I  hope  you 
won't  mind  this  morning,  Chauncey,  if  we  come  at 
your  troubles  quickly.  I  can  see  you're  in  trouble. 
How  much  ?  " 

Willets  attempted  a  smile.  It  was  ghastly  in  its 
mirthlessness. 

"  My  troubles  have  been  coming  at  me,  rather  than 
I  at  them,"  he  admitted  quakingly,  a  queer  line  of 
white  about  his  mouth.  "  I  guess  I'm  all  in — unless 
you  can  manage  to  befriend  me." 

Adam  sat  back  in  his  chair  and  wondered  again 
why  such  a  thing  should  be  as  his  liking  for  this  man. 
At  the  thought  that  doubtless  something  in  Chauncey 
and  something  in  Beatrice  was  similar,  he  returned 
to  the  matter  in  hand. 

"  I  presume,"  he  said,  "  it's  the  old,  old  tale  of  an 
attempt  on  your  part  to  prove  that  Wall  Street  and 
the  lamb  may  yet  lie  down  together." 

"  I  haven't  tried  to  prove  anything,"  said  Chaun- 
cey, all  but  breaking  down  from  tension  of  the  nerves. 
"  If  only  I  could  get  out  now  without  disgrace  I 
wouldn't  even  ask  my  money  back.  For  a  while  I 

40 


The  Lamb  and  the  Lions 

thought  I'd  be  satisfied  to  retrieve  my  meager  funds. 
And  I  would.  I'd  have  quit  if  I'd  only  got  it  back. 
But  I  lost  my  nerve.  A  man  when  he's  a  loser,  and 
losing  more  and  more,  can't  exercise  his  judgment. 
It  got  me  worse  and  worse.  I  was  promised  help,  and 
on  the  strength  of  that  I  borrowed — without  asking 
permission.  I  didn't  mean  to  forge  a  check  or  break 
the  weakest  law.  My  father  was  an  honest  man — 
and  I  have  been  honest — till  now !  "  His  voice  broke 
suddenly,  even  as  all  this  confession  was  breaking 
from  his  lips.  A  strange,  wild  eloquence  seized  him  in 
this  moment  of  his  ecstasy  of  sheer  relief  as  he  told 
of  the  things  that  heretofore  his  own  heart  alone  had 
known. 

"  I  have  always  been  proud  of  the  family  honor," 
he  continued,  with  a  sob-like  utterance  that  he  vainly 
fought  to  control.  "  I'm  the  only  one  that  has  ever 
done  anything  low  or  dishonest.  I  didn't  intend  it 
— didn't  mean  to  slip — didn't  believe  I  could  get  in 
such  a  hole,  or  disgrace  the  name  when  all  the  rest 
are  helpless  in  their  graves  !  I've  thought  of  blowing 
out  my  brains.  I  would  if  the  case  would  be  helped. 
It  would  only  add  a  cowardice  to  the  things  they'll 
call  a  crime !  I've  nearly  gone  mad.  There  has  been 
no  pity,  no  mercy,  no  chance — with  the  wolves  upon 
my  heels !  There  was  no  one  even  to  tell  it  to — not 
one !  I  haven't  the  right  to  come  to  you.  I  know 
that — perfectly  well.  I'm  nothing  to  you — and  never 
can  be,  of  course.  I  only  came  because  a  man  in  such 
a  fix  as  mine  would  clutch  at  a  feather  to  save  him. 

41 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

That's  all — that's  all — that's  everything — but  no- 
body knows  it  but  you !  " 

He  had  tried  to  look  Adam  in  the  face,  but  his  eyes 
had  failed.  Guilt  and  shame  were  upon  him  together 
— guilt  at  what  he  had  done  this  man,  shame  for  this 
coming  to  him  now.  He  rose  from  his  seat  and 
turned  away,  facing  the  door  to  the  hall. 

For  that  one  thing  Adam  liked  him.  He,  too, 
arose,  and  sauntered  to  the  window.  For  a  time  they 
remained  thus  in  silence.  The  big,  fine  emotions 
in  Croswell's  being  were  tugging  at  his  heart. 
Thoughts  of  Beatrice,  too,  were  there — despite  up- 
rooting processes.  She,  too,  would  be  disgraced  by 
this,  should  Chauncey  receive  no  assistance.  He  told 
himself  he  drove  her  out  and  thought  only  of  Willets, 
a  fellow  man  who  needed  the  friendly  hand  of  help. 
But  his  better  self  it  was  that  did  the  thinking,  and 
the  oreole  of  Beatrice  was  there. 

He  did  not  turn  when  at  last  he  cleared  his  voice  to 
speak. 

"  How  much  is  it,  Chauncey,  that  you  owe  ?  " 

Willets  came  back  to  his  chair.  He  stood  there 
staring  at  Adam's  back. 

"  Thirteen  thousand  dollars,"  he  said,  "  — more 
than  my  wretched  life  is  worth." 

Adam  made  no  immediate  reply.  The  sum,  which 
once  would  have  seemed  very  large,  was  nothing  to 
cripple  him  now.  He  was  not  excessively  rich.  His 
income  was  generous  and  certain ;  he  had  money  in 
banks  and  bonds.  It  would  pinch  him  a  year  to 

42 


The  Lamb  and  the  Lions 

relinquish  thirteen  thousand  dollars,  at  this  critical 
stage  of  his  financial  recovery,  but  even  the  loss  of 
such  an  amount  he  could  certainly  sustain.  He 
thought  of  the  money  as  lost  for  good  when  dropped 
in  this  maw  of  the  Street.  How  well  he  knew  the 
utter  futility  of  efforts  such  as  Chauncey  would  make 
to  repay  him,  later  on  ! 

With  a  last  attempt  to  convince  himself  it  was  not 
in  the  least  for  Beatrice,  he  turned  from  the  window 
to  his  desk. 

"  Thirteen  thousand  dollars,"  he  repeated  mus- 
ingly, with  Chauncey's  last  words  in  his  mind. 
"  Your  life's  worth  more  than  that,  if  only  as  a  hor- 
rible example,  Chauncey,  of  butting  in,  lamb-like, 
between  the  bulls  and  bears.  I'll  give  you  the  check 
— and  we'll  see." 

Chauncey  stared.     He  was  whiter  than  before. 

"  You — you'll — Adam,  for  God's  sake,  if  this  is  a 

joke "  he  started,  but  Adam  cut  in  upon  him 

dryly. 

"  The  joke  will  be  on  me,  I  understand.  Now  pull 
yourself  together." 

But  Chauncey  went  down  upon  his  knees  and 
covered  his  face  on  the  desk. 

Adam  wrote  the  check.  To  all  the  wild,  grateful 
promises  that  Willets  made,  concerning  repayments 
in  the  future,  there  was  nothing  much  to  say.  The 
note  Chauncey  signed,  and  Adam  gravely  accepted, 
was  more  a  flattery  to  Willets'  good  intentions  than 
the  earnest  of  a  business  transaction.  Nevertheless, 

43 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

when  Chauncey  left  the  room  at  last,  with  liberty, 
life,  real  hope,  and  one  more  chance,  all  written 
together  on  a  slender  bit  of  paper,  it  was  Adam  who 
felt  that  some  things  still  make  existence  worth  the 
while. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    SQUIRRELS    IN    THE    PARK 

ADAM'S  estimate  of  Chauncey  was  unerring.  Wil- 
lets  faded  from  his  life  and  ken  as  a  breeze  fades 
away  in  the  air.  With  him  departed  all  the  old 
order  of  things  that  fate  had  once  seemed  to  be 
planning. 

December  that  year  was  exceedingly  mild,  the 
faint,  sweet  fragrance  of  the  Indian  summer  lingering 
balmily  in  all  the  scattered  outdoor  spots  that  the 
city's  green  harbors  afford.  Adam,  fresh  from  the 
vast,  open  wilds  of  the  Western  mountains,  spent 
hours  of  his  day-end  freedom  from  the  office  grind  in 
aimless  strolls  through  Central  Park. 

The  Saturday  just  before  Christmas  was  partic- 
ularly bright.  At  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  Adam 
concluded  his  work  for  the  week,  took  an  uptown 
elevated  train  to  Fifty-ninth  Street,  crossed  over  to 
the  Columbus  Circle  entrance  to  the  faded  greenery, 
and  started  northward  for  a  walk  that  would  take  him 
the  length  of  the  park. 

The  roadways  were  fairly  well  filled  with  carriages, 
despite  the  fact  the  more  fashionable  drive  lies  next 
the  Fifth  Avenue  side.  Horsemen  in  groups,  in  pairs, 

45 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

and  singly,  stirred  up  the  gravel  of  the  bridle  paths 
and  sped  on  beyond  through  the  trees.  Dozens  of 
sleek,  gray  squirrels  searched  among  the  fallen  leaves 
for  nuts  to  eat  and  store  away. 

More  than  anything  else  in  all  the  place  these  little 
gray  habitants,  pausing  at  sight  of  their  human 
friends  and  coining  in  confidence  out  upon  the  paths, 
to  hold  one  tiny  paw  against  their  breasts  and  beg  for 
the  favor  of  a  peanut,  appealed  to  Adam's  senses 
of  delight.  He  paused  at  last  in  his  ramble  at  the 
sight  of  a  stylish  young  woman,  on  a  bench,  with 
four  of  the  squirrels  about  her  skirt  and  feet. 

One  of  the  bold  little  pirates  ascended  to  her  knee, 
dived  fearlessly  into  a  bag  she  held,  then  sat  there 
beside  her,  to  munch  at  a  nut  he  had  taken  from  the 
disappearing  horde.  It  might  have  been  something 
in  figure  or  poise  that  appealed  to  Adam's  notice. 
The  young  woman's  face  was  turned  away  as  she 
coaxed  at  the  squirrels  in  the  pathway.  The  sunlight 
slanted  down  upon  her  hat  and  furs,  that  harmon- 
ized in  subtle  charm  with  all  the  autumnal  sur- 
roundings. 

When  he  felt  that  he  must  not  stand  there  longer, 
gazing  thus  pointedly  at  any  young  woman  so  ob- 
viously genteel,  Adam  sauntered  on,  to  pass  her  by, 
still  watching  the  charming  little  scene.  Then  she 
turned  and  raised  her  eyes. 

For  a  moment  he  gazed  confusedly,  as  hints  of 
something  familiar,  long  before,  swiftly  came  to  the 
gropings  of  his  mind.  The  young  woman's  face,  in 

46 


The  Squirrels  in  the  Park 

the  meantime,  having  tinted  warmly,  almost  at  once, 
abruptly  lighted  with  pleasure. 

"  Why — it's  Mr.  Croswell,  I'm  sure !  "  she  said,  her 
cheeks  more  than  ever  suffused.  She  arose  and  the 
squirrels  scampered  away. 

Adam  had  promptly  taken  off  his  hat.  He  ad- 
vanced with  his  hand  extended. 

"  Well,  well,  Mae — Miss  Yardsley — what  in  the 
world  are  you  doing  here,  so  far  from  San  Fran- 
cisco? "  he  said  in  a  boyish  mood  of  delight,  thus  to 
come  upon  a  friend  so  unexpectedly.  "  I  thought  I 
ought  to  know  you,  all  the  time.  You're  not  here 
alone?  Where  have  you  left  your  mother?  " 

"  She's  here,  she  just  walked  up  the  path — and 
won't  she  be  surprised?  Of  all  the  people  I  ever 
expected  to  meet  like  this,  you  are  certainly  the  last. 
It  must  be  all  of  five  years  at  the  least  since  you  went 
away  from  home." 

**  Nearly  six,"  said  Adam.  "  And  how  you've 
blossomed,  Mae,  from  the  merest  slip  of  a  girl." 

She  laughed  at  the  candor  of  his  words,  and  her 
blossoming  assumed  another  phase.  She  seemed  to  the 
man  a  very  revelation  of  the  things  in  a  woman  one 
may  not  expect  from  a  maidenhood  far  from  rich  in 
promise.  He  had  known  her  first  as  a  girl  at  school 
and  then  as  a  budding  young  woman.  She  had 
seemed  a  bit  too  freckled  then,  a  trifle  too  thin,  some- 
what lacking  in  grace,  and  not  at  all  likely  to  be 
pretty.  And  here  she  was,  plump,  softly  rosy  with 
health,  with  a  proud  little  poise,  the  gracious  com- 

47 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

posure    of    a    duchess   and    guiltless    of   the    tiniest 
freckle. 

She  was  certainly  pretty — not  handsome,  perhaps, 
but  decidedly  attractive.  The  blue  of  her  eyes  was 
as  that  of  a  child;  her  smile  was  youthfully  ingenuous. 
Adam  was  also  aware  that  the  hand  she  had  placed 
for  a  moment  in  his  own  was  soft  in  its  glove,  and 
small.  And  all  this  in  a  friend  of  days  gone  by,  to 
a  man  who  was  lonesome  in  the  town,  was  incredibly 
delightful. 

"  And  you  have  changed,"  she  told  him  winningly 
" — grown  more  distinguished,  Adam.  And  to  think 
of  our  meeting  like  this?  I  wonder  if  mother's  com- 
ing back.  I  want  her  to  see  you  at  once." 

"  We'll  follow  where  she  went,"  he  said.  "  She 
can't  be  far  away.  But  I  declare  this  is  wonderful 
luck,  in  the  midst  of  this  cold-blooded  town !  Here 
comes  your  mother  now." 

He  advanced  to  the  stout,  gray-haired  old  lady 
coming  smartly  down  the  path  and  held  out  his  hand 
without  a  word. 

She  had  paused  and  looked  up  at  him  inquiringly, 
catching  the  twinkle  in  his  eyes. 

"  Well !  Adam  Croswell,  you  great,  big,  over- 
grown boy !  "  she  said  affectionately.  "  If  I  ever  in 
all  my  life !  I'd  just  as  soon  expect  to  see  the  Angel 
Gabriel  or  the  very  old  Nick  in  New  York ! " 

Adam  smiled.  "  I'd  feel  like  the  devil  if  I'd  missed 
you  here,  but  Gabriel  must  have  called  me  to  the 
Park." 

48 


The  Squirrels  in  the  Park 

**  The  same  bright  scamp,  that's  what  you  are," 
the  old  lady  told  him,  as  two  honest  tears  shone 
warmly  in  her  eyes.  "  I  never  was  so  glad  to  see 
anyone  since  the  ice-cream  man  used  to  come  around 
when  I  was  a  hungry  child." 

And  that  was  the  welcome  Adam  received  at  the 
threshold  of  his  fate. 


CHAPTER  VIH 
A  MOOD  OF  HYMEN'S  CALM 

THE  Yardsleys  were  living  a  block  away,  their 
apartments  facing  the  park.  Adam  took  din- 
ner there  that  day  and  called  every  evening  for  a 
week. 

These  old-time  friends  had  re-crossed  his  path  at 
a  moment  vital  in  his  life.  It  was  a  moment  when  to 
the  soreness  of  his  heart  had  been  added  the  yearning 
towards  his  kind  which  the  season  of  Christmas  ex- 
cites. Essentially  a  warm,  affectionate  being,  he  had 
found  the  barren  round  of  business  occupation  stead- 
ily palling  on  his  mind.  The  home-desiring  period  of 
his  life  was  emerging  once  more  from  the  cavernous 
retreat  to  which  it  had  fled  in  the  summer.  He  was 
more  than  merely  glad  to  welcome  the  advent  of  his 
friends;  he  was  hungry  for  the  atmosphere  of 
home. 

Mrs.  Yardsley  was  home  personified.  Where  she 
sat  an  indefinable  sense  of  comfort,  peace,  security, 
and  sympathy  pervaded  the  air  like  the  fragrance 
from  an  old-fashioned  garden.  It  was  doubtless  the 
soothing  influence  of  the  mother  more  than  the 
piquant  charms  Mae  rapidly  developed  that  induced 

50 


A  Mood  of  Hymen's  Calm 

Adam's  many  returns.  So  cordial  and  honest  was  his 
welcome  here  that  he  felt  like  one  of  the  family. 

The  Yardsleys  were  glad,  for  their  part,  of  a  man 
thus  at  home  beneath  their  roof,  where  none  had  been 
for  many  years.  Their  funds  in  San  Francisco  real 
estate  supplied  a  reasonable  income ;  they  were  hand- 
somely and  comfortably  equipped. 

It  was  not  that  much  was  done  for  Adam  here,  but 
it  won  his  boyish  heart.  Mae  was  gifted  in  music. 
She  not  infrequently  played  and  sang,  and  Adam 
joined  in  the  singing.  Her  mother's  talk  was 
vivacious,  more  so  than  Mae's — and  bristling  with 
anecdote  and  picturesque  philosophy.  The  dinners 
were  old-time,  home  affairs,  with  dishes  Adam  had 
known  from  boyhood.  Not  infrequently  all  attended 
the  opera  together,  or  the  reigning  theatrical  attrac- 
tion. 

Habits  crease  and  fold  our  thoughts  as  wearing 
creases  our  clothing.  And  the  creases,  always  fitted 
to  our  movements  and  ourselves,  invariably  make  for 
greater  comfort.  Adam's  harborless  thoughts  were 
glad  of  this  new-found  refuge.  The  Yardsleys  be- 
came part  and  parcel  of  his  daily  and  weekly  exist- 
ence. He  entered  the  circle  of  their  friends ;  he 
turned  to  their  comfortable  apartments  as  a  cold 
man  would  turn  to  a  fire. 

He  began  with  no  thought  of  a  permanent  adjust- 
ment of  his  life  to  that  of  Mae.  He  had  felt  con- 
vinced he  would  never  again  desire  to  occupy  that 
intimate  relationship  with  any  woman.  He  had 

51 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

thought  of  Beatrice  so  long  that  contemplation  of 
another  figure  in  her  place  had  been  preposterous. 
Nevertheless,  he  moved  to  apartments  nearer  the 
home  of  his  friends. 

Propinquity  developed  its  old  familiar  dangers. 
The  friendship  between  himself  and  Mae  assumed  an 
ease  and  understanding  that  Adam  found  decidedly 
agreeable,  despite  the  fact  that  he  had  never  known 
precisely  such  a  specimen  of  the  genus  American 
girl.  Mae  was  astonishingly  modern,  to  his  some- 
what old-fashioned  ideas. 

Beyond  her  musical  accomplishments,  she  knew 
nothing  at  all  of  domestic  arts.  She  could  scarcely 
have  sewed  on  a  button ;  she  declared  she  should  never 
even  try.  She  had  taken  her  education,  the  service 
of  her  mother,  immunity  from  care,  and  the  generous 
expenditures  upon  her  person  as  the  merest  matters 
of  course.  Towards  a  non-utilitarian,  leisurely,  semi- 
social  and  almost  wholly  functionless  existence,  after 
marriage,  she  looked  with  assured  serenity.  Never- 
theless, at  the  bottom  of  her  heart  lurked  all  the 
latent  attributes  that  make  for  the  glory  of  her  sex. 

Her  helplessness,  to  Adam,  was  amusing.  Her 
regal  little  ways  of  expecting,  or  even  exacting 
service,  were  quaint.  He  was  strong,  active,  work- 
loving,  service-hunting.  He  had  made  up  his  mind, 
when  the  merest  boy,  that  no  wife  of  his  should  ever 
have  to  work  as  he  had  always  seen  his  mother  labor. 
His  mother  and  Mae's  had  been  very  much  alike, 
vigorous,  self-reliant,  capable.  Mae  was  as  pleasant 

52 


A  Mood  of  Hymen's  Calm 

as  a  kitten — and  equally  industrious.  She  had  al- 
ways been  petted;  she  had  always  curled  down  upon 
the  softest  pillow,  and  those  who  loved  her  had  never 
moved  for  hours,  during  her  periods  of  rest,  that  her 
slumbers  might  be  spared  interruption. 

It  was  easy  for  Adam  to  slip  into  ways  of  serving 
this  royal  little  being.  To  have  her  expect  it  gave 
him  a  curious  pleasure.  Men  like  to  be  relied  upon 
to  perform  pretty  services,  deeds  requiring  strength 
or  skill  and  bits  of  chivalry.  And  Mae  so  consistently 
relied  upon  her  mother  and  her  friends.  The  child- 
like surrender  she  constantly  made  of  powers  of  serv- 
ing herself  aroused  the  paternal,  with  the  lover-like, 
in  Adam's  generous  nature. 

He  hardly  knew  when  it  was,  at  last,  that  he 
quietly  accepted  a  contemplation  of  Mae  as  a  possible 
mate.  It  was  not  a  positive  consent  he  arrived  at 
with  himself.  He  might  still  have  effected  a  retreat. 
He  had  drifted,  rather  than  paddled,  to  his  present 
frame  of  mind.  He  was  soothed  by  the  peace  in 
the  Yardsley  abode  and  wooed  by  its  redolence  of 
home.  That  all  of  this  home  quality  adhered  to 
and  inhered  in  the  personality  of  Mae's  mother  was 
a  matter  beyond  his  analysis. 

Late  in  the  spring,  in  perfect  calm,  he  suggested 
to  Mae  that  they  marry.  Perfectly  unperturbed, 
Mae  consented.  Neither  paused  to  note  the  absence 
of  the  hot,  impetuous  flame  of  love — the  spark  of 
divinity  in  the  mating  passion  that  permits  no  reckon- 
ing, abhors  the  chill  of  reason,  and  embraces  the 

53 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

unknowable  consequences  with  magnificent  reckless- 
ness of  spirit.  Adam  was  dubious  of  such  a  heat, 
and  Mae  was  then  incapable  of  such  a  blood-exertion. 

The  date  of  the  marriage  was  set  in  June.  Mae's 
mother  it  was  who  shouldered  the  worries,  faced  the 
delays,  suffered  the  inevitable  exasperations,  and  as- 
sumed the  responsibilities  of  management.  Mae  was 
serene  throughout  it  all,  and  rested  when  all  were 
exhausted. 

Adam,  on  the  wedding  day,  was  diverted  in  a  cross- 
town  street  by  the  plight  of  a  child  in  distress.  He 
forgot,  temporarily,  the  part  for  which  he  was  cast 
in  the  world-old  play  to  be  enacted.  He  halted  boy- 
ishly to  restore  that  child  to  a  new  delight  in  exist- 
ence. He  was  fifty  minutes  late  in  arriving  at  the 
church — with  the  minister,  Mrs.  Yardsley,  best-man, 
maids,  and  everyone  but  Mae,  in  a  state  that  bordered 
on  hysterics.  Mae  was  far  more  concerned  with  the 
concrete  fact  that  a  glove  had  lost  a  button  and  the 
minister's  vestments  were  not  in  the  least  in  accord 
with  the  floral  decorations. 

Despite  the  delay,  however,  Fate  had  her  culmina- 
tion made  complete.  In  perfect  order,  and  without 
the  slightest  emotional  ecstasy,  the  two  were  pro- 
nounced man  and  wife.  Big,  fond  Adam  kissed  his 
bride  in  a  spirit  of  honest  affection.  He  was  proud 
of  Mae  as  a  handsome  little  thing;  he  loved  her  as  he 
might  have  loved  a  brother.  Mae  was  calmly  glad 
to  be  married  at  last  to  a  man  so  kind,  good-natured, 
strong,  and  provided  with  means  for  insuring  com- 

54 


A  Mood  of  Hymen's  Calm 

fort.  She  loved  him  very  much  indeed — as  she  loved 
all  her  sources  of  comfort. 

Late  in  that  balmy  afternoon  they  boarded  a  train 
to  escape,  for  a  time,  and  enjoy  their  honeymoon 
together.  Like  the  shuttle  that  carries  the  threads 
of  the  loom  to  weave  them  at  last  in  the  tapestry  made 
of  countless  units,  laid  in,  side  by  side,  so  the  train 
shot  them  forth  on  the  vast  scheme  of  life,  to  weave 
them  as  a  mated  pair  in  the  fabric  of  nature's  design. 
It  was  Mae  who  succeeded,  thus  early  in  the  work,  in 
creating  a  blemish  in  the  pattern. 

It  was  little  she  did,  but  sufficient.  She  told  Adam 
calmly,  in  her  modern,  candid  way,  that  now  they 
were  free  from  mother,  friends,  and  all,  she  meant  to 
extract  from  the  world  a  constant  joy,  unhampered 
by  things  to  hold  her  down.  And  motherhood  held 
women  down. 


CHAPTER  IX 

CHAUNCEY'S  BELATED  CONFESSION 

THE  Croswells  had  been  married  a  year.  They 
were  childless ;  they  lived  a  quiet,  uneventful 
life  in  an  up-town  New  York  apartment  of  con- 
siderable luxury,  and,  save  for  their  servants, 
were  alone. 

Mae's  mother  had  returned  to  San  Francisco.  She 
had  done  a  mother's  duty  by  her  daughter;  she  was 
secretly  glad  of  a  rest.  Mae  had  assumed  a  life  of 
city  pleasure.  Like  many  another  helpmate  of  a 
New  York  business  man,  she  lived  in  the  city  by 
spending  the  summer  at  the  shore  and  much  of  the 
winter  in  Florida. 

Adam  was  happy,  despite  the  fact  that  all  his  life 
he  had  planned  certain  family  joys.  His  wife,  if  not 
a  mother,  was  at  least  a  richly  caparisoned,  cultured, 
socially  busy  little  monarch  of  his  household,  of  a 
type  with  which  the  modern  hour  abounds.  She  sup- 
plied the  place  of  a  child  in  his  heart,  even  more  than 
the  place  of  a  wife.  She  was  childishly  inconsequent, 
childishly  expectant  of  service  and  favors,  childishly 
helpless,  imperious,  and  even  "  spoiled."  She  was 
someone  to  surprise  and  delight  with  baubles  of 

56 


Chauncey's  Belated  Confession 

jewelry,  someone  to  pet,  when  her  mood  was  receptive, 
someone  to  indulge  in  varying  fancies  when  the  old 
toys  cloyed  on  her  senses. 

Her  life  was  a  seeking  after  enjoyment.  She 
played  at  bridge,  she  pursued  the  matinee,  she  reveled 
in  teas,  drove  in  the  park,  and  ceaselessly  trailed  the 
new  toilets.  She  spent  Adam's  earnings  as  the 
rivers  spend  their  flow,  mindless  of  the  sources  whence 
they  spring.  She  attended  church,  but  her  religion 
was  self-indulgence.  She  joined  a  number  of  clubs, 
and  drifted  on  to  others  when  they  palled. 

There  were  groups  of  friends  that  came  and  went, 
some  of  them  Mae's  and  some  Adam's.  A  few  men 
only  she  could  tolerate — and  her  wishes  were  Adam's 
laws.  All  day  he  was  busy  at  his  office,  with  work 
that  he  thoroughly  enjoyed.  He  looked  his  splen- 
did youth  again,  and  was  ruddy  with  vigor  and 
health. 

In  the  calm  and  serenity  of  this  somewhat  one- 
sided existence  the  old-time  wounds  in  Adam's  heart 
had  healed.  Past  memories  were  dimming  into  har- 
mony with  life.  Regrets  had  glided  to  some  quiet 
bourne  whence  only  their  fragrance  proceeded.  The 
first  anniversary  celebration — a  heaping  of  gifts  upon 
his  wife — had  barely  been  concluded,  and  Mae  was 
preparing  to  depart  from  the  town  for  the  sea,  when 
out  of  Fate's  huge  cornucopia  a  letter  was  shaken 
for  Adam.  It  arrived  at  the  office,  straight  from 
the  hand  of  Chauncey  Willets.  It  was  dated  at 
Albany,  and  read  as  follows: 

57 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

"  DEAR  ADAM  : — 

"  It  will  doubtless  seem  strange  to  you  that  after  all 
my  promises  and  subsequent  silence  and  general  fail- 
ure to  make  good  to  you  for  all  you've  done  for  me,  I 
should  write  at  last  and  have  the  nerve  to  ask  a  final 
favor — but  such  is  the  case — and  what  I've  got  to 
write  makes  the  '  favor  '  seem  like  a  joke. 

"  I  guess  I'm  a  failure,  and  what  I'm  getting  now  is 
just  about  my  portion.  I'm  dying  up  here,  alone — 
but  I  hate  to  be  planted  by  the  county — for  I  have 
no  friends — which  I  deserve,  I  guess,  from  the  way  I 
have  used  them  in  the  past.  But  whether  you  can  do 
anything  or  not,  I've  got  to  let  you  know  what  I  did 
to  you  and  Sis — for  I  can't  make  good  on  returning 
the  money  you  loaned,  and  this  confession  is  about  the 
only  thing  left  that  I  can  deliver  by  way  of  trying  to 
square  things  off. 

"  It's  a  poor  kind  of  squaring,  I  know,  but  the  harm 
has  been  done  and  at  least  both  you  and  Sis  have  a 
right  to  know  it  was  nobody's  fault  but  mine.  It's 
all  about  that  time  when  you  and  Sis  broke  up  your 
relations  and  both  went  off  and  married  someone  else. 
I  did  all  the  treacherous  work  that  spoiled  your 
dream.  I  was  in  a  hell  of  a  fix  for  the  need  of  money. 
Percy  came  along,  and  saw  how  things  were  going 
between  you  and  Beatrice — and  as  he  had  loved  her 
before  and  never  given  up,  he  paid  me  to  write  you 
that  letter,  and  work  the  game  on  Sis  as  well  as  you — 
so  he  got  her  after  all,  as  he  had  plotted.  I  don't 
know  how  I  ever  did  it,  Adam,  for  you  were  the  very 

58 


Chauncey's  Belated  Confession 

best  friend  I  ever  had  in  the  world — and  the  man 
that  Sis  really  loved.  But  I  did  it,  that's  all.  We 
never  know  why  we  do  these  things  afterwards — and 
wish  to  God  we  hadn't.  What's  the  good  of  my  wish- 
ing anything?  All  I  can  do  now  is  to  tell  you  what 
was  done,  for  I  don't  want  Sis  to  get  the  blame  any 
longer — and  I've  written  her  as  I  am  writing  you. 

"  Of  course,  Percy  threw  me  down,  after  all.  He  is 
that  kind.  God  only  knows  what  sort  of  a  husband 
he  has  made  for  Sis.  She  isn't  the  one  to  complain — 
and  I've  lost  all  touch  with  her  anyway.  It  may  do 
you  some  good  to  know  Percy  treated  me  as  I  deserved 
— and  I've  gotten  it  in  the  neck  ever  since,  and  now 
I'm  bumping  the  bumps  to  my  hole  in  the  ground,  as 
might  have  been  expected.  I  was  meant  to  be  no 
good — and  I  am  it. 

"  Somehow  I  don't  mind  dying.  It's  the  best  thing 
that  could  happen  for  the  world — and  maybe  for  me. 
I  never  could  pull  up,  and  get  to  going  right — not 
after  I  failed  when  you  put  me  on  my  feet,  never 
knowing  what  a  blackguard  I  was.  So  I  say  I  don't 
mind  dying,  but  I  admit  I'm  lonesome,  without  a 
friendly  face,  or  anyone  to  say  '  so  long '  to  as  I  go. 
I  know  you  are  the  last  one  I've  got  a  right  to  ask 
for  anything,  after  all  I've  done,  but  someway  I 
would  sort  of  like  to  be  buried  a  little  better  than  a 
dead  cat,  and  if  you  can  just  run  up  long  enough  to 
say  '  so  long,'  I  won't  even  ask  you  to  forgive 
"  Your  no-good  friend, 

"  CHAUNCEY  WILLETS." 
59 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

Adam  sat  transfixed,  with  this  letter  in  his  hand, 
staring  at  it  dumbly,  with  eyes  focused  back  on  the 
past.  It  was  almost  incredible,  all  this  confession 
that  came  to  him  so  belated.  A  dull,  deep  pain,  a 
pang  of  indignation  and  a  wild  but  futile  outcry  to 
the  woman  he  had  loved,  seemed  blending  with  a  fire 
in  his  bosom.  Flames  of  the  undying  passion  seared 
his  heart.  Rejoicings  to  know  that  Beatrice,  after 
all,  had  loved  him  and  been  innocent,  stirred  fra- 
grances, forgotten  thrills,  and  hungerings  within 
him. 

Like  one  who  has  come  upon  treasure,  dusty,  mis- 
laid, but  eternally  precious,  he  seized  this  old  ecstasy 
anew.  But  it  crumbled  in  his  hands.  It  was  not  to 
be  grasped  or  folded  to  the  heart — it  was  only  ashes, 
formless,  cold,  and  dead. 

He  arose  and  paced  the  floor.  In  that  first  white- 
hot  moment  of  discovery,  the  chasm  of  time  had  been 
bridged.  His  hurts,  his  struggles,  the  months  of 
time,  even  his  marriage  and  Mae — all  disappeared  at 
the  magic  touch  of  the  love-wand,  once  more  restored. 
Beatrice  cleared,  the  lie  dispelled — their  love  had 
surged  back  for  fulfillment.  Then  the  bridge  ab- 
ruptly wavered,  like  a  mist,  the  sun  of  fact  was  pour- 
ing harsh  day  upon  the  substance  of  his  dream,  and 
the  chasm  was  there,  more  utterly  profound  than  ever 
he  had  deemed  it  before. 

He  did  not  groan ;  he  smiled.  It  was  like  a  recru- 
descence of  that  ghastly  smile  that  Chauncey  had  seen 
upon  his  lips  on  the  night  when  the  infamy  was  done. 

60 


Chauncey's  Belated  Confession 

He  returned  to  his  chair,  sat  down  before  his  desk, 
and  once  more  read  the  letter. 

"  Poor  devil !  "  he  said.  "  What  a  mess  to  make  of 
life!" 

In  troops  and  hordes  the  facts  of  all  the  situation 
came  tumbling  in  upon  him.  There  was  Mae,  his 
wife — and  the  "  Percy  "  who  had  married  Beatrice. 
There  was  even  the  happiness  that  he  daily  extracted 
from  his  mating.  And  Beatrice — she  might  also  be 
content,  despite  this  hint  in  Chauncey's  letter.  But 
happiness  or  no  happiness,  the  affair  was  closed  to 
debate.  Not  even  an  exchange  of  regrets,  consola- 
tions, or  mutual  bickerings  at  Chauncey,  Percy,  and 
Fate,  between  himself  and  Beatrice  could  be  advis- 
able or  solacing,  at  a  date  thus  far  removed.  There 
was  nothing,  absolutely  nothing  to  be  done — save  to 
endure  it  and  forget. 

The  ashes  of  the  treasure  once  actually  theirs  could 
only,  at  best,  be  placed  upon  some  darkened  shelf, 
where  once  in  a  while  fond  memory  might  grope,  but 
no  clasping  hands  might  be  laid. 

A  strong,  reactionary  sense  of  the  outrage  done 
aroused  a  tossing  passion  for  a  time.  Against  this 
unknown  "  Percy "  Adam  conceived  a  destroying 
wrath.  The  creature  had  done  him  such  a  harm  as 
merited  death  itself.  He  had  done  his  injuries  to 
Beatrice — and  she,  unaware,  had  lived  with  the  trai- 
tor as  his  wife.  She  would  know  at  last — and  would 
find  herself  still  tied  to  this  thief  of  their  love. 

What,  in  God's  name,  would  she  do  when  once  she 
61 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

possessed  that  knowledge?  Was  such  a  thing  con- 
ceivable as  for  Beatrice  now  to  be  happy  with  the 
man?  Had  she  ever  been  happy  in  a  union  such  as 
this?  Would  she  rend  the  creature  at  her  side? 
Would  she  write  and  speak  her  mind?  He  shook  his 
head.  How  idle,  how  utterly  futile  were  all  such  be- 
lated speculations  !  Too  late !  Too  late ! — the  cry 
was  in  his  soul.  And  the  voice  of  his  mateship  with 
his  wife  rose  steadily  higher  in  his  ears. 

Too  late!  Those  two  brief  words  were  sufficient. 
They  answered  everything.  Business  and  the  round 
of  his  daily  life — implements  all  of  forgetfulness — 
were  happily  at  hand.  In  an  automatic,  subconscious 
manner  he  was  rapidly  arranging  letters,  documents, 
his  desk  inhabitants,  in  order  for  later  attention.  It 
was  all  in  obedience  to  promptings  of  his  mind  which 
he  had  not  halted  to  question.  He  was  going  to 
Albany  at  once.  The  cry  from  a  man  who  was  dying 
alone  outsounded  all  the  weaknesses  or  errors  of 
the  past. 

Adam  started  for  home.  Mae,  between  his  de- 
parture from  the  office  and  his  unexpected  appearance 
at  the  house,  had  been  'phoning  him  in  rising  per- 
turbation. Three  huge  trifles  of  her  own  coming 
trip  had  risen  to  threaten  delay. 

Adam  arrived  in  the  midst  of  one  more  effort  she 
had  made  to  determine  his  position  on  the  map. 

"  Well,  if  I  haven't  shouted  my  head  off  over  that 
wire !  "  she  said.  "  Did  they  tell  you  at  last  I  wanted 
you  right  straight  away  ?  " 

62 


Chauncey's  Belated  Confession 

"  Why,  no,"  said  Adam  quietly.  "  I've  got  to  go 
to  Albany,  where  a  friend  of  mine  is  dying." 

"  A  friend  of  yours  dying? "  she  repeated. 
"  Couldn't  he  wait  till  I  can  get  started?  Oh,  I  don't 
mean  that,  of  course,  but  I  need  you  so.  Here  I  am 
in  the  midst  of  Susan's  packing,  and  the  messenger 
boy  from  Frawley's  actually  lost  on  his  way  with  my 
gown." 

Susan  was  the  maid.  She  was  one  of  three  in  the 
service  of  this  regal  little  toy.  Adam  expressed  a 
tentative  suggestion  that  one  of  the  maids  be  launched 
upon  the  streets  to  discover  the  boy  who  had  strayed. 
But  the  maids  were  required  there  at  home.  He 
presently  hied  him  forth  upon  the  search — and  re- 
turned in  an  hour  with  the  gown. 

He  was  fortunately  back  in  time  to  be  useful  in 
other  directions.  He  did  not  go  to  Albany  that  day. 
Indeed,  he  remained  to  conduct  his  wife  to  her  train, 
on  the  following  afternoon,  then  hastened  to  Chauncey 
at  once. 

Chauncey  was  dead.  How  utterly  alone  he  had 
been  at  the  final  moment,  indeed  for  the  final  week, 
could  scarcely  have  been  appreciated  by  anyone  ab- 
sent from  the  scene.  Starvation  and  actual  want  had 
played  their  part  in  his  concluding  tragedy.  Some 
utterly  incongruous  pride  had  figured  as  an  element 
in  the  situation,  but  the  man  had  been  absolutely 
friendless.  He  had  passed  out  beyond  in  the  twilight 
hour,  while  Adam  was  playing  the  role  of  one  more 
maid.  There  had  been  no  meager  "  So  long," 

63 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

"  God  speed,"  or  handshake,  to  cheer  him  on  his 
way. 

In  the  pride  which  had  come  thus  belated  upon 
him,  Chauncey  had  not  only  trudged  all  his  shadowy 
path  alone,  but  had  carefully  destroyed  every  vestige 
and  scrap  of  correspondence,  every  document  and 
clew  by  which  the  inquisitive  might  have  learned  the 
name  to  which  honors  had  always  attached,  so  long  as 
his  father  remained  its  business  possessor.  His  one 
thoughtfulness,  inconsistent  with  his  life,  had  been  to 
spare  Beatrice  the  possible  disgrace  that  might  at- 
tach to  the  death  of  a  brother  in  such  misery  and 
want. 

Had  Adam  desired  to  ascertain  the  whereabouts  of 
the  woman  he  had  loved,  he  must  only  have  been  baf- 
fled by  this  care.  The  things  that  Chauncey  might 
have  told  were  forever  made  silent  at  last. 

The  body  was  buried,  if  not  with  pomp,  at  least 
with  honor.  And  one  good  friend  and  earnest 
mourner  followed  the  coffin  to  the  grave.  Then  back 
to  his  home  and  his  work  and  his  life  went  the  man 
who  had  suffered  the  wrongs. 


CHAPTER  X 

A    LETTER    FROM    HOME 

BEATRICE  GRAHAM,  for  more  than  a  year,  had 
been  a  disillusioned  woman.  She  was  living  with  Gra- 
ham in  London,  and  largely  supporting  their  estab- 
lishment. 

From  the  moment  when  Chauncey  had  delivered  the 
blow  that  beat  down  the  love  between  herself  and 
Adam  Croswell,  she  had  known  no  positive  joy,  ex- 
cept the  joy  of  labor.  She  had  done  her  duties  un- 
complainingly ;  she  had  brightened  her  own  and  Gra- 
ham's pathway  with  bravery  and  cheer.  Neverthe- 
less, despite  her  utmost  efforts,  real  happiness  had 
never  abided  in  their  home. 

They  had  begun  with  at  least  a  flush  of  promise. 
Graham  had  loved  her,  in  his  way.  For  a  time  he 
strove,  in  some  eccentric  scheme  of  pride,  to  prove 
himself  the  equal,  if  not  the  superior,  of  any  man  she 
might  have  selected  as  a  maker  of  marital  bliss.  He 
took  her  to  Paris,  at  the  prompting  of  his  superficial 
judgment.  He  was  certain  that  mere  delights  of  the 
senses  were  all  that  women  seek.  The  gaudy  allure- 
ments of  the  French,  plus  the  truly  magnificent  pos- 

65 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

sibilities  in  art,  culture  and  travel,  proffered  by  the 
Continent,  he  felt  convinced  must  satisfy  the  most 
exacting  nature. 

With  crazy  prodigality  he  expended  the  money  he 
had  felt  to  be  a  fortune.  He  had  come  to  New  York 
with  something  more  than  ten  thousand  dollars  in 
hand.  It  flowed  through  his  fingers  like  air.  It  had 
lasted  seven  months,  bought  a  few  specious  acquaint- 
ances and  left  him  desperately  floundering.  By  then 
they  had  retreated  to  London,  where  at  least  his 
speech  was  comprehended  and  opportunities  for  em- 
ployment were  to  be  expected. 

Beatrice,  when  they  settled  in  a  studio  in  the 
Brompton  Road,  found  herself  in  possession  of  half  a 
dozen  absurdly  extravagant  gowns,  a  bit  of  added 
skill  in  painting,  and  a  husband  no  longer  even  pre- 
tending that  life  was  aught  but  a  farce.  From  time 
to  time  he  secured  a  bit  of  work.  He  had  dabbled  in 
architecture,  skimmed  a  trifling  knowledge  of  civil 
engineering,  meddled  with  draughtsmanship,  and 
achieved  odd  fragments  of  hack  journalism.  But 
he  could  not,  for  the  life  of  him,  deal  squarely.  The 
habit  of  cunning  was  upon  him — and  that,  too,  in 
destructive  measure  only.  He  was  not  sufficiently 
crafty  to  live  by  the  coining  of  his  wits ;  he  was  merely 
a  cheap  and  amateurish  rogue  whose  one  perennial 
victim  was  himself. 

Beatrice  had  made  no  complaint.  She  did  not  fade 
into  mirthless  discontent  or  even  into  sullen  patience. 
She  had  never  been  patient  with  the  Graham  qualities, 

66 


A  Letter  from  Home 

but  at  least  she  strove  to  serve  him  as  a  wife.  She 
partnered  his  cares,  she  attempted  to  coax  him  to- 
wards economy,  honorable  dealings,  and  manly  cour- 
age ;  she  lent  herself  to  sympathetic  interest  in  all  that 
appeared  to  give  him  hope.  She  endeavored,  in  a 
word,  to  fulfill  every  possible  function  of  the  help- 
mate. The  friends  he  invited  she  made  welcome ;  the 
changes  he  affected  she  accepted.  Her  constant  ef- 
fort was  to  mold  the  man  to  something  of  usefulness 
and  honor. 

His  weaknesses,  his  selfishness,  and  speciousness,  she 
had  all  too  soon  discovered.  It  came  as  a  matter  of 
small  surprise  when,  at  last,  he  insisted  that  her  gift 
in  painting  should  be  utilized  to  keep  them  both  afloat. 
The  cares  of  their  home  she  had  already  undertaken. 
She  mended,  cooked,  marketed,  washed  not  a  few  of 
the  household  necessities,  saving  the  useful  pennies 
while  he  spent  the  golden  pounds. 

She  added  the  painting  of  minatures  to  the  round 
of  her  daily  occupations.  Among  the  few  tattered 
remnants  of  Percy's  outraged  friends  remained  three 
lords,  a  Marquis,  and  a  trio  or  so  of  Honorable 
Misses.  Through  the  medium  of  these — whose 
friendship,  by  the  way,  was  almost  wholly  on  account 
of  Beatrice — a  number  of  commissions  were  obtained. 
Inasmuch  as  this  occurred  while  Percy  was  finding  his 
field  of  activities  reduced  to  hack  journalism,  he 
promptly  ceased  seeking  a  market  and  merely  sought 
employment  for  his  wife. 

This  was  the  period  which  Fortune  chose  in  which 
67 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

to  deliver  a  stroke.  The  letter  from  Chauncey  ar- 
rived in  the  midst  of  accumulated  ironies. 

Letters  from  Chauncey  had  been  few.  Only  to  one 
who  has  lived  abroad  is  a  comprehension  possible  of 
the  hunger  for  news  from  home.  How  incredibly  far 
away  seems  all  that  genial  American  soil,  with  its 
sunshine,  simplicity,  and  brothers !  How  long  it 
takes  for  letters  to  arrive  !  A  mew  from  the  old  home 
cat  might  start  the  tears  of  joy. 

Beatrice  was  working,  and  alone,  when  the  post- 
man's double  knock  upon  the  outside  door  announced 
her  fateful  visitor.  She  feared  the  arrival  of  bills. 
The  sweet,  girlish  joy  that  welled  in  her  breast  at 
sight  of  Chauncey's  familiar  scrawl  had  rarely  been 
equaled  in  months.  It  was  not  entirely  that  Chauncey 
seemed  the  one  and  only  being  left  from  whom  she 
received  a  genuine  affection ;  his  letter  represented 
America,  New  York — and  might,  perhaps,  even  men- 
tion Adam. 

She  carried  it,  pressed  against  her  beating  heart, 
to  the  window,  where  stood  a  cushioned  couch.  Her 
work  she  neglected,  gladly.  It  and  the  world  of 
cares  could  wait  while  she  read  and  re-read  this 
precious  missive. 

She  kissed  the  soiled,  cold  envelope  before  she  tore 
it  open.  Someway  she  needed  something  like  this  on 
which  to  expend  her  starving  love.  It  seemed  as  if 
letters  were  all  she  had  on  which  to  bestow  her  kisses 
— for  she  could  not  kiss  her  dreams. 

With  fingers  that  trembled  she  tore  the  envelope 
68 


A  Letter  from  Home 

apart,  then  settled  far  back  in  the  pillows,  next  the 
light,  to  prolong  and  intensify  her  pleasure. 

The  letter  was  almost  a  counterpart  of  the  one  that 
Chauncey  had  written  to  Adam.  It  told  her,  in  its 
brief,  blunt  way,  that  he  was  dying.  It  added  a 
statement  of  what  he  had  done  to  destroy  all  his  letters 
and  papers. 

Rigid  with  terrible  intuitions,  gathered  already 
from  the  few  vague  hints  that  prefaced  his  main  con- 
fession, Beatrice  halted,  stared  at  the  page,  and 
pressed  one  hand  to  her  bosom.  But  she  had  to  go 
on ;  she  had  to  know  what  it  was  he  had  "  done  in  the 
past." 

She  read  it  now  in  a  swift,  wild  manner,  her  sense 
outrunning  her  eyes.  She  had  gathered  the  whole  of 
the  shameful  tale  before  it  was  half  completed.  Some 
poignant  sense  of  divination — born  perhaps  from  a 
species  of  faith  in  Adam  after  all — a  deathless,  in- 
vulnerable faith  which  a  woman  could  harbor  when  a 
man  could  not — this  surged  upon  her  understanding 
with  an  overwhelming  weight. 

She  did  not  bend.  The  weight  was  rested  on  her 
heart.  She  sat  there  stiffly  upright,  racing  through 
the  letter  with  her  eyes.  While  still  it  had  nothing  to 
add  she  did  not  know,  she  nevertheless  read  on,  in 
mechanical  obedience  to  the  letter's  natural  demands. 
Then,  at  last,  it  fell  with  her  hands  to  her  lap,  while 
she  stared,  as  if  through  the  bulk  of  the  earth,  far 
back  to  that  other  night  of  pain. 

She  was  stunned.  The  rapid  reaction  from  antici- 
69 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

pated  joys  would  have  somewhat  numbed  her  heart, 
but  this  thing  left  her  stricken.  No  thought  con- 
cerning Chauncey  and  his  possible  death  found  lodg- 
ment in  her  being.  That  did  not  count.  Nothing 
could  count  in  this  huger  disaster  of  his  making. 
Not  only  did  it  involve  his  honor — that  was  far,  far 
more  than  his  life — but  it  robbed  her  twice.  It  had 
robbed  her  of  Adam,  with  his  empire  of  love,  and  it 
swept  away  the  last  remaining  vestige  of  her  fainting 
respect  for  Graham. 

These  were  the  things  she  thought  of  first,  as  her 
mind  stood  away  from  and  circled  about  the  sickening 
center  of  the  crime.  As  one  might  circle  the  scene 
of  a  murder,  done  upon  one  beloved,  so  she  held  away, 
for  a  moment  more,  from  a  full  contemplation  of  all 
that  had  been  done  upon  the  love  that  she  and  Adam 
had  known. 

It  was  not  to  be  avoided  long.  A  year  of  this 
fiasco  with  Percy  had  aroused  in  her  mind  every  pos- 
sible speculation  concerning  fates  that  might  have 
been  otherwise,  together  with  ceaseless  inquiries  as  to 
what  had  really  happened,  so  to  alter  Adam's  very 
nature.  With  the  first  reactionary  pique  and  pride 
abated,  she  had  drifted  back  a  thousand  times  to  vain 
regrets  and  the  might-have-been  dreams  with  which 
the  feminine  heart  must  forever  abound. 

A  tumult  of  heart-cries,  wild  protestations  of  the 
love  that  had  never  more  than  retreated  to  its  sanctu- 
ary, and  pent-up  gifts  divinely  passionate,  torren- 
tially  flooded  her  bosom.  She  wanted  to  call  across  the 

70 


A  Letter  from  Home 

world  for  Adam  to  hear.  She  wanted  to  tell  that 
her  love  had  lived — that  despite  it  all  she  had  loved 
him,  sans  reason  or  control. 

She  wanted  the  mighty  comfort  and  the  fearful 
disturbance  of  love.  She  had  felt  herself  perishing 
and  withering  up  for  love.  She  had  lived  in  the 
castles  that  ought  to  have  been;  she  had  fed  her 
starving  heart  on  sweet  imaginings  of  what  the  fates 
should  have  permitted.  And  now  to  discover  they  had 
both  been  tricked — that  the  love  they  vowed  had  been 
sacred,  and  whole  to  the  end — that  cowardice  and  in- 
famy alone  had  been  responsible  for  what  had  taken 
place — all  this  was  well-nigh  insupportable. 

In  that  moment  her  loathing  for  Graham  was  al- 
most murderous.  If  it  had  not  been  that  all  this 
time  she  had  striven  to  fill  the  full  measure  of  a  wife — 
a  mate  in  body,  mind,  and  soul — surrendering  all  in 
a  lofty  sense  of  duty — and  all  to  a  creature  capable 
of  this — her  sense  of  outrage  would  not  have  been 
added  to  the  rest.  Graham  had  cast  her  down  to 
humiliations,  aye,  to  degradations — in  the  light  of 
Chauncey's  revelations.  The  things  that  for  the 
mate  she  loved  would  have  seemed  but  beautifying 
service,  were  shameful,  destroying  tasks  of  drudgery 
and  slavery,  viewed  from  these  underlying  facts. 

Her  rage,  like  Adam's,  was  a  strong,  primordial 
emotion.  They  were  two  strong,  natural  beings. 
But  like  Adam,  too,  she  was  helpless.  When  the 
surge  of  indignation  and  impotent  regrets  had  inun- 
dated all  her  being,  she  was  face  to  face  with  facts. 

71 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

She  was  Graham's  wife,  and  Adam  was  another 
woman's  husband.  The  facts  concerning  his  mar- 
riage to  Mae  had  been  revealed  in  Chauncey's  letter. 

The  hopelessness  of  the  whole  situation  bore  in  upon 
her  with  all  the  inertia  of  its  weight.  The  cry  that 
welled  to  her  very  lips  must  be  crowded  wholly  back 
within  her  heart.  She  could  not  sound  it  forth  to 
Adam  now.  His  love  might  be  dead.  She  was  amply 
aware  that  men  and  women  differ — that  men  rarely 
cling  to  a  dream  of  love  with  a  woman's  tenacity  of 
romance. 

Weakness  and  a  gray  of  resignation  succeeded  the 
outburst  of  her  passion.  Her  world  had  been  a  deso- 
lation— but  this  now  made  it  a  hell.  She  saw  she  must 
still  go  on  with  Graham.  There  was  nothing  else  to 
do.  She  had  made  her  couch  and  here  she  must  lie, 
accepting  disgust  till  the  end. 

Her  thoughts  returned  by  sequences  to  Chauncey. 
Like  Adam,  she  pitied,  more  than  blamed,  the  mis- 
erable weaknesses  of  his  nature.  But  the  love  she  had 
borne  him — this  was  changed,  and  could  never  again 
be  the  same.  The  sense  of  that,  far  more  than  the 
thought  that  he  might  be  dead,  brought  a  poignant 
grief  to  her  heart.  She  had  lost  far  more  through 
what  he  had  done  than  she  could  through  his  passing 
from  the  world.  And  feeling  she  had  lost  him  twice 
— through  this  deed  of  the  past,  and  through  the 
gates  of  death — she  was  lonely  and  hopeless  indeed. 
Such  as  he  was,  her  brother  had  been  at  least  a  little 
something  to  which  to  cling.  She  had  poured  upon 

72 


A  Letter  from  Home 

him  tender  thoughts  of  affection  out  of  the  very 
paucity  of  objects  for  her  love.  And  now,  rendered 
wholly  despicable,  utterly  unworthy,  he  had  thrust 
himself  out,  and  died. 

She  felt  he  was  dead,  she  knew  not  why.  Some 
singular  note  of  finality,  some  divination  unhuman, 
conveyed  in  the  lines  he  had  written,  left  less  than 
a  shadow  of  doubt  in  her  mind  that  his  spirit  was  no 
more.  She  could  not  weep ;  the  affair  was  far  too 
grim.  It  far  too  intimately  involved  herself,  and 
self-pity  she  despised. 

At  the  end  of  it  all  she  was  sickened,  through  and 
through.  She  knew  she  should  not  write  to  Adam. 
She  felt  he  also  would  be  silent.  There  was  nothing 
they  could  say,  or  do.  She  must  shoulder  her  burden, 
stand  to  the  harness,  and  plod  her  desert  way. 

But  she  could  not  work  that  afternoon.  Recurrent 
flames  of  indignation,  with  flashes  of  reasonless  pas- 
sion, and  heart  impulses,  blind  and  deaf  to  denying 
facts,  continued  in  possession  of  her  being.  As  well 
might  a  swallow  argue  with  the  wind,  or  a  pebble  de- 
bate with  a  crater,  as  for  the  truths  of  the  things  thus 
done  past  alteration  to  array  themselves  before  her 
deathless  love. 

When  she  knew  at  last  that  all  her  strength  of  mind 
was  insufficient  to  the  task  of  expunging  love's  mad- 
ness from  her  heart,  there  was  one  single  recourse  re- 
maining. She  welcomed  the  thought  of  what  she 
could  do,  as  the  being  who  starves  might  welcome  the 
odor  of  bread. 

75 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

And  as  one  long  famished  for  the  requisites  of  life 
she  fled  to  her  trunk,  delved  to  the  bottom,  in  a  pas- 
sionate impatience,  caught  up  a  photograph — 
guarded  in  tissues  of  silk — and  pressing  it  fondly  to 
her  lips  and  her  breast,  stumbled  back  to  her  couch,  to 
fling  herself  face  downward,  with  the  picture  between 
a  pillow  and  her  cheek.  And  there  she  sobbed  in  an 
ecstasy  of  the  something  recovered  by  her  heart. 

By  dark  her  shoulders  had  straightened  to  the  load 
that  they  must  continue  to  bear.  Graham  returned 
from  his  useless  rounds — and  found  her  unaltered  in 
his  sight.  The  days  marched  on.  She  mended, 
swept  and  painted,  as  before,  with  the  same  bright 
appearance  of  cheer.  She  scorned  to  tell  a  creature 
such  as  this  of  the  facts  that  had  come  to  her  knowl- 
edge. But  from  that  day  forth  the  man  at  her  side 
was  her  husband  in  just  the  name  alone.  And  the 
prayers  she  prayed  were  more  like  thanks  to  God 
that  no  children  had  come  of  their  union. 


BOOK  II 
CHAPTER  I 

AN    AFTEEMATH 

TEN  years  of  modern  New  York  living  had  passed 
for  Mae  and  Adam  Croswell,  with  a  number  of  mod- 
ern results.  Adam,  nearing  his  fortieth  year  of  life, 
was  a  vigorous,  normal  being  in  a  dull  monotony  of 
mechanical  existence.  Mae  was  the  weakened,  half- 
sick  victim  of  self-induced  nervous  prostration, 
largely  of  the  imaginative  order. 

The  household  was  one  of  the  strange  American 
anomalies,  of  steadily  increasing  prevalence.  The 
Croswells  were  childless.  The  family  comprised 
themselves,  their  servants,  and  a  dog.  The  animal 
was  Mae's — her  substitute  for  something  on  which  to 
lavish  the  affections  prompted  by  faintly  surviving 
instincts  of  maternity.  Its  care  devolved  upon  Adam. 

From  the  standpoint  of  things  normal,  happy  and 
wholesome,  the  marriage  was  a  failure.  Mae  Cros- 
well had  done  precisely  as  she  pleased,  and  was  wholly 
unhappy.  Adam  had  done  precisely  as  she  wished, 
and  was  negatively  miserable.  It  was  not  that  either 

75 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

had  wearied  of  the  other  as  a  personal  element  in  the 
union;  it  was  more  that  their  whole  existence  was 
purposelen  and  their  plan  inevitably  destructive. 

It  had  come  about  in  a  gradual  way,  with  no  sharp 
jars  of  warning.  Both  had  contributed  to  the  un- 
success  of  the  outcome.  Mae  had  exacted  immunity 
from  all  a  woman's  normal  functions,  and  Adam  had 
consented  to  her  will.  She  had  sought  a-field  for  the 
pleasures  which  only  the  home  and  normal  life  supply. 
She  had  quite  eliminated  work,  she  had  pronounced 
against  a  family,  she  had  overfed  on  artificial  pleas- 
ures till  her  system  at  last  rebelled. 

They  had  never  had  a  home,  in  the  old-fashioned 
sense  of  the  word.  Their  apartments  had  supplied  a 
place  to  eat  and  sleep,  in  close  proximity  to  all  the 
city  amusements  that  Mae  believed  she  required  for 
her  pleasure.  Week  in  and  week  out  she  had  rarely 
had  anything  to  do  save  to  think  upon  herself.  This 
had  sufficed,  to  all  appearances,  for  a  time.  She  had 
thoroughly  enjoyed  her  freedom  from  cares,  and  her 
liberty  to  move  about,  adopt  her  own  expedients  for 
entertainment,  and  shift  responsibilities.  She  had 
never  been  wearied,  save  by  her  over-indulgence  in 
delights.  She  had  flitted  to  sea-side  and  tropics  at 
the  first  trifling  indispositions.  She  had  lived  in  the 
perfumed  cotton  of  her  jewel-case  existence  until  her 
own  self-preciousness  had  almost  became  a  fear,  and 
her  delicacy  a  proverb. 

By  a  slow,  inexorable  process  of  self-indulgence 
and  dwelling  on  thoughts  of  herself,  her  morbidness 

76 


An  Aftermath 

of  mind  had  been  developed.  She  had  magnified  her 
trifling  ailments,  called  in  doctors,  withdrawn  from 
Adam's  more  healthy  participations  in  natural  func- 
tions of  the  mind  and  body,  and  otherwise  increased 
her  uselessness  in  the  scheme  of  things  cosmic  and 
domestic,  till  Nature  was  willing,  if  not,  indeed,  pre- 
pared, to  permit  her  retirement  from  the  scene,  as  one 
no  longer  fitted  to  survive. 

Adam,  like  many  another  American  husband,  had 
shown  his  one  particular  weakness  in  his  home — the 
weakness  of  surrender  to  an  unwise  little  woman, 
where  he  should  have  assumed  the  mastery — even 
over  herself — and  been  head  and  commander  of  his 
house. 

Too  late  he  beheld  the  encroachments  of  this 
wretched  state  of  affairs.  His  comprehension  of  the 
reasons  for  things  was  still  a  trifle  vague.  He  merely 
knew,  in  a  natural  way,  that  everything  was  wrong. 
His  remedies  had  increased  rather  than  diminished  the 
causes.  He  had  piled  on  more  indulgences,  in  place 
of  manfully  opposing  his  wife's  destroying  will.  He 
had  required  less  and  less  of  wifehood  or  womanhood 
from  her  decaying  strength,  while  padding  her  more 
and  more  with  cushions  such  as  wrought  the  original 
harm. 

From  time  to  time,  in  his  hunger  of  the  heart,  if 
not  in  a  species  of  instinct,  he  had  dared  to  wonder 
if  it  might  not  help  for  Mae  to  become  a  mother.  She 
had  argued  the  insupportable  drain  upon  her 
strength.  Later  she  had  wept  at  the  mere  sug- 

77 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

gestion,  as  a  cruelty  unworthy  of  his  love.  Her 
progress  towards  this  state  of  mind  had  naturally 
been  accompanied  by  increasing  retirement  from  the 
marital  relationship. 

At  the  opening  of  this,  a  fateful  and  crucial  epoch 
of  their  lives,  Mae  had  long  been  only  a  nominal  wife 
to  the  man  with  a  child-desiring  nature.  He  had 
asked  for  a  family ;  she  gave  him  a  dog.  And  yet  she 
had  not  utterly  destroyed  the  affection  of  his  heart, 
and  was  not  herself  wholly  devoid  of  a  sweet  and 
pretty,  if  latent,  spirit  of  things  maternal.  Adam 
loved  her  still,  in  his  boyish  way,  but  far  more 
because  of  his  habit  that  was  ever  suggested  to  his 
thought. 

He  had  long  since  ceased  to  struggle.  Too  long 
he  had  surrendered  the  mastery  that  is  part  in  the 
life  of  the  right-living  man.  Her  wishes  and  whims 
had  been  his  laws,  self-enacted  and  eagerly  obeyed. 
He  had  made  her  selfish,  made  her  weak,  made  her  ab- 
solutely thoughtless  of  himself. 

His  own  labor,  meantime,  he  had  doubled.  Mae's 
property  was  gone,  swept  in  a  moment  from  assets  to 
liabilities  by  the  monstrous  disaster  in  San  Francisco. 
Her  mother  had  long  been  laid  at  rest,  having  died  at 
her  California  home.  The  Western  mining  proper- 
ties, productive  of  the  funds  on  which  Adam  relied, 
had  been  seriously  affected  by  successive  strikes,  but 
were  once  more  disgorging  metal  wealth. 

By  dint  of  redoubled  efforts  he  had  met  the  drain 
imposed  by  Mae's  methods  of  extravagance.  They 

78 


An  Aftermath 

still  maintained  superb  apartments,  with  maids, 
special  'phones  for  Mae's  convenience  and  useless  ac- 
commodations for  friends,  who  were  never  invited  to 
remain  beneath  the  roof  over  night. 

Adam's  life  was  work,  his  joy  was  work,  his  out- 
look, his  refuge,  was  work.  The  friends  with  whom 
he  liked  to  meet,  for  the  sake  of  a  smoke,  an  evening 
of  talk,  and  a  bit  of  social  relaxation,  were  surren- 
dered with  much  of  the  rest.  They  had  never  been 
welcome  to  come  to  the  house,  enjoy  a  cigar,  a  glass 
of  beer,  or  some  boyish  outburst  of  fun,  for  their 
habits  jarred  upon  Mae.  Group  after  group  of  ac- 
quaintances had  come  and  gone  in  the  Croswells'  New 
York  experience,  leaving  little  of  permanent  value, 
either  of  friendships  or  remembrances. 

There  were  two  men  friends  of  sufficiently  intimate 
acquaintance  to  call  upon  Adam  informally  at  this 
moment  that  Fate  had  charged  at  last  with  material 
for  crisis  and  change.  One,  Will  Sloane,  was  a  man 
of  middle  age — a  rare,  loyal  friend,  of  exceptional 
sweetness  and  diffidence  of  character,  whose  gentle 
ways  and  unerring  sympathies  were  equally  welcome 
to  Adam  and  to  Mae.  The  other  was  younger,  in- 
deed barely  more  than  a  boy.  His  name,  Paul  Price, 
had  been  his  father's  name — and  Adam  had  revered  it 
all  his  life. 

The  elder  Price  had  put  him  on  his  feet,  started 
him  off  in  his  career.  Paul,  after  three  years  of  rub- 
bing off  the  nap  of  a  college  education,  had  come  to 
New  York  at  Adam's  invitation,  to  work  in  the  office 

79 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

with  himself.  He  was  twenty-five,  lovable,  and  as 
hopelessly  optimistic  as  a  pup.  Adam,  filled  to  the 
brim  with  yearnings  towards  fatherhood,  conceived 
for  this  rainbow-emitting  young  son  of  his  old  bene- 
factor the  most  solicitous  regard. 

There  were  two  more  intimate  visitors,  who  came 
as  the  impulse  willed.  One  was  a  friend  of  Mae's,  a 
modern  young  woman,  Frona  Abbot  by  name,  who  in 
instincts,  mental  attainments,  ambitions  and  inten- 
tions was  Mae's  own  replica,  plus  a  far  greater  self- 
assurance.  The  other,  Miss  Emily  Bronson,  five 
years  of  age,  industrious,  mercurial,  and  loving,  was 
Adam's  most  recent  protege. 

Already  between  young  Paul  and  Frona  Abbot  had 
sprung  that  mutual  interest  practically  inseparable 
from  social  propinquity — and  Adam  was  disturbed. 
It  had  never  occurred  to  his  mind  to  compare  his  wife 
and  Frona.  He  realized  instinctively  and  without 
comparisons  how  much  they  were  alike.  He  disliked 
Miss  Abbot's  attributes  exceedingly — yet  never  in 
his  life  had  confessed  to  himself  a  consistent  dislike 
of  Mae's.  Without  charging  the  slightest  fault  to 
his  wife,  he  determined  that,  come  what  might,  he 
would  certainly  exert  his  utmost  powers  to  deflect 
young  Paul  from  Frona's  course. 

'He  did  not  confess  to  a  concrete  regret  that  he  and 
Mae  had  ever  met,  for  his  habit  of  loving  her  was 
fixed.  He  did  not  know  and  could  scarcely  have 
believed  how  close  he  was  to  a  no-love  of  his  wife. 
She  had  failed  of  every  reciprocity  of  matehood  and 

80 


An  Aftermath 

every  function  of  womanhood  preservative  of  marital 
affection.  She  had  outraged  nature  all  these  years 
— and  he  was  a  part  of  the  nature  thus  affected. 

This,  in  late  October  of  their  eleventh  married 
year,  was  the  situation  confronting  the  Croswells 
when  Fate,  selecting  her  marionettes,  bestirred  her- 
self anew. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  VISITOR 

ADAM  returned  one  Friday  night  exceptionally 
wearied  by  his  work.  He  had  shouldered  up  a  weight 
of  commercial  cares  of  ominous  dimensions.  The 
weight  was  off  and  his  mind  was  relieved,  but  reaction 
had  claimed  him  for  its  own. 

His  wife  he  found  excited.  She  had  waited  his 
coming  with  childish  impatience.  She  was  flushed 
with  eagerness  and  fever.  Rarely  had  Adam  seen  her 
cheeks  suffused  with  this  becoming  glow. 

"  Well,  well,"  he  said,  kissing  her  quite  dispassion- 
ately as  she  met  him  by  the  library  door,  "  how  pretty 
and  well  you  look  to-night,  with  roses  all  blooming  in 
the  garden ! " 

He  pinched  her  cheek  with  all  the  show  of  the 
untiring  lover's  affection.  He  had  kept  up  this 
purely  perfunctory  bestowal  of  caresses  with  never 
the  slightest  hint  of  a  failing  inclination. 

"  Now,  there  you  go,  starting  at  once  to  make  fun 
of  my  looks,"  she  said,  "  and  you  know  I've  got  some- 
thing to  tell  you." 

Adam  threw  his  arm  about  her  waist  and  urged  her 
towards  a  chair. 

82 


A   Visitor 

"  Sit  down  and  tell  me  all  about  it.  Has  the  doc- 
tor thought  of  some  new  place  to  brighten  with  your 
presence?  "  He  strode  across  the  room  to  the  sizzling 
radiator  to  warm  up  his  back  as  he  talked.  The 
evening  was  exceptionally  chill. 

"  I  can't  sit  down,"  objected  Mae.  "  You  can  see 
I'm  too  excited." 

"  Well,  well !  "  said  Adam,  quietly,  evincing  an  in- 
terest he  certainly  did  not  feel,  "  what's  the  new  dis- 
turbance about?  " 

"  Will  you  please  sit  down  and  let  me  tell  you? 
I  never  feel  at  ease  when  you  stand  off  like  that  and 
assume  that  jocular  demeanor." 

Aware  that  prompt  surrender  saved  needless  dis- 
cussion and  complaint,  he  came  at  once  to  a  chair 
beside  the  desk  and  laid  his  hand  gently  on  his 
wife's. 

"  I  hope  it's  nothing  that  annoys  you,"  he  said. 
"  Perhaps  it's  some  little  surprise." 

"  Well,"  she  confessed,  "  I  didn't  really  know 
whether  anything  could  be  done  in  such  a  case  or  not 
— so  I  didn't  say  anything  about  it." 

She  so  rarely  took  Adam  into  her  confidence  as  to 
what  she  meant  to  do,  till  her  object  was  practically 
accomplished,  that  he  had  learned  to  expect  the 
unexpected. 

He  said:  "  It  isn't  somebody  coming?  " 

"  Now,  please,  don't  jump  right  down  my  throat 
and  begin  to  scold  before  I've  had  the  least  little 
chance  to  explain,"  she  answered  in  a  voice  inclined 

83 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

towards  tears.  "  You're  getting  to  do  that  more 
and  more." 

"  Excuse  me,  my  dear,"  he  apologized.  "  What- 
ever you  do  is  always  acceptable  to  me.  You  know 
that,  I'm  sure.  But  do  sit  down  and  tell  me  in 
your  own  way." 

Mae  sat  down,  and  raised  an  inquiring  look  to 
his  face. 

"  It  isn't  much  to  tell — but  Babe  is  coming — com- 
ing here — to  pay  us  quite  a  visit." 

Adam  looked  at  her  quietly.  "  Babe  "  was  a  young 
girl  cousin  of  Mae's,  residing  in  Nevada.  Despite 
the  fact  her  name  was  Ethel  Nickerson  and  her  age 
fully  nineteen  years,  she  was  known  to  all  who  knew  of 
her  at  all  by  the  more  familiar  appelation. 

The  knowledge  that  anyone  related  to  his  wife, 
and  perhaps  remotely  patterned  on  her  style,  was 
imminent,  aroused  a  slight  disturbance  of  Adam's 
calm.  There  was  nothing  he  could  do — as  usual. 
He  felt  their  visitor  was  probably  close  upon  his  wife's 
confession,  since  she  rarely  prepared  him  far  ahead. 

"  Babe,"  he  said,  "  Babe,  hey?  Well,  this  is  news. 
Did  she  write  she'd  like  to  come?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mae.  "  I  wrote  and  asked  them  to 
§end  her." 

"Oh!" 

"  I'm  all  alone,  for  hours  and  hours  of  every  day !  " 
his  wife  continued.  "  What  do  servants  and  maids 
care  for  the  people  they  serve?  What  does  Annie 
care  about  me?  I  just  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer, 

84 


A   Visitor 

to  be  here  day  after  day  with  no"  one  nearer  than 
a  maid — and  I  thought  of  course  you'd  be  delighted 
that  I  even  dreamed  of  Babe." 

"I  am — I  am — delighted,"  Adam  answered, 
without  a  hint  of  his  genuine  feeling  in  his  voice. 
"  When  do  you  expect  her  to  arrive?  " 

Mae  flushed  a  deeper  color. 

"  Well  I — I  don't  see  how  in  the  world  she  ever 
got  on  such  a  train,  but  it  certainly  wasn't  any 
fault  of  mine — and  she  doubtless  did  the  best  she 
could — and  I  hope  you're  not  going  to  be  cross." 

"  You  must  have  had  a  wire,"  said  Adam.  He 
had  learned  to  expect  the  worst  when  his  wife  as- 
sumed this  injured  tone.  "  She  won't  arrive  for 
dinner?  " 

"Why,  no!"  said  Mae.  "How  absurd!  She's 
coming  to-night  at  one  o'clock — at  least  that's  when 
her  train  arrives." 

Adam  concealed  his  emotions. 

"  I  see.  I  can  meet  her,  of  course."  His  long 
night  of  rest  could  be  deferred. 

"  Someone  will  have  to  meet  her,  naturally," 
admitted  his  wife.  "  There  is  no  one  else  to  do 
it." 

"  That's  all  right."  He  was  silent  for  a  moment 
while  he  worked  out  a  little  deduction.  Then  he 
added,  to  test  his  mental  conclusions :  "  I  always 
thought  the  Nickersons  rather  short  of  money.  I'm 
surprised  to  know  they  could  afford  to  pay  for  this 
treat  to  Babe." 

85 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

Mae  turned  the  surprise  of  her  eyes  upon  him. 

"  They  didn't  afford  it,  as  you  ought  to  know.  I 
sent  them  the  money  for  the  ticket — and  a  little  bit 
extra  for  clothes." 

Adam  merely  nodded. 

"  That  was  the  generous  thing  to  do — and  like 
you,  I'm  sure.  How  long  she'll  remain  is  problemat- 
ical, I  suppose." 

"  Well — yes,"  Mae  hesitated.  "  I  asked  her  for  a 
year." 

"A  year?" 

She  flew  to  her  customary  tactics,  like  a  startled 
fowl,  at  the  mere  intonation  of  his  question. 

"  Now  if  you're  going  to  scold,  or  find  the  least 
fault  with  a  poor,  sick  woman  who's  trying  to  get  a 
little  bit  of  pleasure  from  such  a  visit  as  this — 
why  do  so,  for  of  course  I  can't  prevent  you." 

He  had  long  since  learned  that  the  slightest 
legitimate  questioning  of  her  motives,  wisdom,  or 
judgment  was  "  scolding."  Argument  was  no  less 
abusive,  while  assertion  of  a  positive  opinion  or  the 
slightest  inclination  to  assume  the  rule  of  his  domicile 
would  have  been,  perhaps,  a  fatal  tyranny. 

"Why  scold?  What  for?"  he  asked  her  gayly. 
"  I'm  delighted  to  know  you'll  have  such  a  daughter- 
like  companion.  Perhaps  you'll  prefer  to  remain 
for  the  winter  here  in  town  and  not  go  South  as 
before." 

"  I  should  think  that  might  wait  to  be  decided," 
she  replied.  "  If  I  do  go,  I'll  take  Babe  along." 

86 


A   Visitor 

Adam  was  beyond  surprise.  He  hoped  he  wa*  be- 
yond the  possibility  of  bankruptcy. 

"  All  right,"  he  said.  "  After  all,  there's  no  good 
reason  why  Babe  shouldn't  be  far  more  agreeable  than 
a  maid." 

"  Why,  I  should  have  to  take  a  maid,  of  course, 
just  the  same,"  said  Mae.  "  What  could  Babe  know 
of  taking  care  of  a  half-sick  woman  ?  She'll  be  noth- 
ing at  all  but  my  companion.  But  I  might  have 
known  a  man  would  expect  me  to  economize  on  just 
my  little  comforts." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Adam,  with  a  grimness  of  resig- 
nation she  had  never  so  much  as  observed,  "  take  an- 
other maid  for " 

Annie  appeared  at  the  portiered  door  and  an- 
nounced that  the  dinner  was  served. 


Vf 


CHAPTER  III 

BABE 

AT  half-past  one  in  the  morning,  with  the  train 
forty  minutes  late,  Adam  sat  muffled  in  the  waiting- 
room,  weary  and  gray  from  his  day.  He  had  fallen 
asleep  for  fifteen  minutes  before  he  left  the  house.  It 
had  lot  been  sufficient  to  rest  him,  but  further 
sleep  was  driven  from  his  eyes. 

Slowly  the  long,  dull  years  of  his  married  life  were 
rolling  open,  backward,  for  review,  as  he  sat  here 
alone  with  his  thoughts.  He  felt  it  was  all  a  tedious 
farce.  He  knew  it  had  summed  up  in  failure.  He 
could  think  of  nothing — absolutely  nothing  that  had 
justified  his  own  and  Mae's  existence — especially  since 
their  marriage.  They  had  lived  a  narrow,  retro- 
gressive life,  with  profit  to  none — themselves  included. 
They  had  given  the  world  less  than  nothing — no 
children  for  future  citizenship,  no  aid  in  its  ceaseless 
problems,  no  assistance  to  its  noble  institutions,  no 
influence  of  family  example.  And  their  own  four 
hands  were  empty. 

He  blamed  himself,  he  blamed  the  desolation  of 
their  artificial,  city  existence,  he  blamed  the  trend  of 
the  hour.  Had  his  wife  been  alone  in  her  scheme  of 

88 


Babe 

self-indulgence,  childlessness,  and  uselessness,  no  in- 
dictment would  have  lain  at  the  door  of  modern  do- 
mestic developments.  But  he  knew  of  men  by  scores 
and  dozens  whose  lives  were,  to  all  intents  and  pur- 
poses, the  same  as  his  own. 

They  were  workers  such  as  the  restless  world  may 
never  have  equalled  before.  They  performed  very 
prodigies  of  labor  and  productiveness — productive- 
ness of  money.  They  showered  it  madly  on  their 
women.  They  purchased  luxuries,  immunity  from 
labor  and  fancy's  dictates  for  their  wives  and  daugh- 
ters precisely  the  way  they  constructed  their  build- 
ings— largely  with  a  wish  to  fly  the  highest  flag. 
But  what  did  they  give  to  the  day,  the  year,  the  fu- 
ture? And  what  did  they  gain  for  themselves? 

Few  that  he  knew  were  good  citizens.  They 
dodged  elections,  juries,  and  their  taxes.  They  were 
nervous,  groove-fitted,  and  feverish.  Their  wives,  like 
his,  absorbed  their  service  with  an  absolutely  thought- 
less serenity  beyond  even  monarchical  indifference  to 
slavish  subjects.  And  the  worst  of  it  was  that 
neither  the  men  nor  the  women  thus  created  by  the 
hour  and  the  plan  were  happy,  or  wholesome,  or 
healthy. 

His  mind  went  back  upon  his  years  in  a  search 
for  the  first  mistake.  He  beheld  a  hundred  episodes 
where  Mae  had  ruled — and  ruined.  But  back  of  each 
was  another  of  the  times  when  the  natural  law  of 
mated  lives  had  been  either  ignored  or  affronted. 

His  thought  went  back  to  the  very  first,  with  er- 

89 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

rors  for  the  mile-posts  on  the  way.  When  he  once 
more  confessed  it  had  been  a  mistake  to  wed  with 
Mae  at  all,  his  dreams  were  focused  on  Beatrice,  as 
they  had  a  thousand  times.  Despite  the  fact  he  had 
found  himself  thus  dwelling  on  thoughts  of  Beatrice 
with  exceptional  frequency  and  persistency,  of  late, 
he  attributed  no  particular  significance  to  the  men- 
tal phenomenon.  He  merely  knew  that,  some  way  to 
his  heart  she  was  more  than  usually  close  and  pre- 
cious. The  reveries  through  which  she  moved  were 
particularly  vivid,  particularly  welcome. 

He  could  not  have  known  that  one  of  the  added 
elements  that  Fate  was  assembling  in  the  scene  was 
Beatrice  Graham  herself.  For  nearly  a  year  she  had 
been  in  America,  and  for  more  than  a  month  in 
New  York. 

Graham  had  been  for  two  years  in  his  grave.  He 
had  died  abroad,  in  a  public  asylum  for  the  mad. 
To  the  last  his  wife  had  served  him,  with  hands, 
health,  funds — everything  but  heart  or  soul.  She 
had  found  herself  all  but  destitute  and  facing  debts 
she  must  honor  when  her  widowhood  arrived,  but  her 
painting  had  supplied  her  direst  needs. 

Thoroughly  sick  of  all  in  her  life  that  even  re- 
motely suggested  the  man  from  whom  she  was  finally 
freed,  she  had  only  remained  abroad  sufficiently  long 
to  foster  the  needed  strength  and  money  and  then 
had  crossed  the  ocean  to  the  "  home  "  that  all  America 
represented.  Proceeding  at  once  to  Washington, 
where  a  number  of  social  acquaintances  were  offered 

90 


Babe 

through  the  medium  of  various  English  friends,  she 
had  painted  a  number  of  miniatures,  before  the  ses- 
sion was  concluded,  and  later  had  come  to  Manhattan. 

She  had  made  not  the  slightest  effort  towards  in- 
quiring into  Adam's  affairs.  She  was  not  even  cer- 
tain he  resided  in  the  town.  It  could  serve  no  ac- 
ceptable end  to  discover  his  home  or  habits,  or  to 
advertise  her  presence  near  at  hand.  She  had  rented 
an  old  but  comfortable  studio,  presented  a  few  of 
her  letters  of  introduction,  and  was  managing  to 
keep  alive  and  pay  a  little  on  her  debts,  despite  the 
country's  monetary  crisis.  Like  Adam,  she  had 
not  reckoned  with  the  Fates  and  could  not  read  the 
pages  yet  unturned. 

If  a  subtle  sympathy  between  herself  and  Adam 
Croswell,  playing  for  weeks  upon  its  wireless  way, 
had  reached  and  influenced  his  inner  consciousness, 
as  perhaps  it  was  doing  to-night,  it  was  part  and 
parcel  of  the  things  inscrutable  that  go  to  mold  the 
very  lives  of  those  who  deem  themselves  in  full 
command. 

The  thread  of  Adam's  meditations  was  duly  broken. 
The  train  at  last  arrived.  Adam  went  forward. 
How  he  should  know  this  "  Babe  "  of  Mae's  was  more 
than  he  could  fathom.  He  did  not  know  that  Ethel 
Nickerson,  armed  with  the  family  portrait  of  her 
uncle,  would  attend  to  the  recognitions.  But  she  did. 

He  was  standing  helplessly  staring  at  the  crowd 
that  surged  up  the  platform  to  the  gates  when  a 
somewhat  plump,  petite  and  decidedly  pretty,  brown- 

91 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

eyed  girl,  walking  beside  a  bald-headed  man  who  bore 
all  her  bundles,  with  his  own,  abruptly  altered  her 
general  course  and  hastened  gladly  towards  him. 

"  Excuse  me,"  she  said,  with  an  accent  deliciously 
Western,  "  but  aren't  you  my  uncle  Adam  ?  " 

Something  in  Adam  jumped  with  joy  and  lighted 
his  weary  face  anew. 

"You're  Babe?"  he  said — "Miss  Nickerson — 
Ethel — my  niece  ?  " 

"  I'm  just  Babe !  "  she  cried  at  him  honestly,  loving 
him  right  on  the  spot.  "  I'm  awfully  glad  to  see 
you !  "  and  she  gave  him  a  good,  frank  kiss.  "  Uncle 
Adam,"  she  added,  turning  to  her  escort,  "  this  is  my 
friend,  Mr.  Vance.  I  met  him  on  the  train  and  he's 
been  awfully  kind  all  the  way.  Thank  you,  Mr. 
Vance,  for  all  your  trouble.  Uncle  Adam  will  take 
all  the  things.  Good-by,"  and  she  held  out  her 
hand.  "  If  ever  you  come  to  Nevada,  don't  forget 
to  come  and  see  us,  sure." 

Mr.  Vance  shook  hands,  not  only  with  Babe,  but 
also  with  Adam  as  well.  He,  too,  was  a  Western 
product — and  did  something  good  to  Adam's  heart. 
Then  he  took  up  his  bags,  while  Adam  grasped  at 
Babe's,  and  drifted  from  their  ken. 

Unwilling,  for  some  non-understandable  reason,  to 
release  Babe's  belongings  to  the  porters,  Adam  led 
the  way  outside  to  a  taxicab,  Babe  meantime  talking 
all  the  way. 

"  Gee !  "  she  said,  as  they  settled  in  the  seat,  "  I'm 
glad  to  see  someone  I  know !  " 

92 


Babe 

Her  remark  seemed  perfectly  congruous.  Adam 
himself  felt  precisely  as  if  he  had  known  her  all  his 
life.  And  his  heart  was  warm  and  glad. 

She  asked  for  her  aunt,  told  all  the  news  of  the 
ranch  out  home,  related  the  daily  events  on  the  train, 
and  laughed  in  a  sweet,  healthy  chuckle  of  her  own 
that  was  part  of  her  candid  little  self. 

It  was  half-past  two  when  they  came  to  Adam's 
home.  Mae  was  reported  asleep. 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  she's  so  sensible,"  said  Babe. 
"  I'll  crawl  right  in  myself.  Good-night,  Uncle 
Adam.  I'm  awfully  glad  you're  the  kind  of  a  man 
you  are." 

She  kissed  him  again,  in  affection  as  honest  as  a 
child's.  Then  for  half  an  hour  he  sat  there  alone 
reflecting  upon  the  new  event. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AN  INSTRUMENT  OF  FATE 

BABE  was  the  most  astonishing  reversal  of  every- 
thing preconceived  that  Adam  had  ever  beheld. 

She  was  not  in  the  least  what  either  he  or  Mae 
had  expected.  A  more  natural,  fearless,  or  plainly 
outspoken  little  being  would  have  been  appalling. 
To  Mae  she  ceaselessly  delivered  a  series  of  truth- 
supplying  shocks.  It  was  not  that  she  blundered, 
not  that  she  meant  to  distress  the  most  sensitive 
nerve.  Unwittingly,  in  her  nai've,  youth-wise  can- 
dor, she  bowled  Mae's  artificial  nonsense  endways  on 
the  most  unexpected  occasions. 

She  herself  was  astonished  at  the  manner  of  the 
Croswells'  daily  life.  She  said  so,  frankly.  She  was 
fond  of  dogs,  or  any  animals,  but  not  in  a  family 
capacity.  Children  she  loved.  She  could  not  under- 
stand so  many  childless  marriages  as  Mae  took  pains 
to  enumerate,  in  defense  of  her  own  situation.  She 
liked  her  aunt  and  would  gladly  have  served  her, 
heart  and  soul,  yet  she  candidly  criticized  her  ways. 
She  was  certain  that  Mae  was  far  from  being  ill, 
and  frankly  had  no  patience  with  her  selfishness. 

Her  uncle  she  loved.     No  other  word  is  adequate  to 


An  Instrument  of  Fate 

express  the  unabashed,  straightforward  affection  her 
heart  had  allotted  him  at  once.  Moreover,  she  under- 
stood him  and  told  him  plainly  she  was  sorry  for  his 
plight.  She  hated  to  see  him  "  poking  around  with 
a  dog  "  when  he  "  ought  to  be  playing  with  kids." 
She  promptly  accepted  Miss  Emily  Bronson  as  one 
of  Adam's  mainstays  of  joy  and  became  that  small 
person's  delight. 

But  her  chumship  with  Adam  was  the  thing  that 
to  him  was  a  constant  source  of  surprise  and  in- 
credible pleasure.  Had  she  been  his  own  daughter, 
bound  to  his  heart  by  the  ties  of  her  nineteen  years, 
he  could  scarcely  have  loved  her  more.  She  amused 
as  well  as  soothed  him — and  wakened  his  faculties 
anew. 

All  this  had  required  no  more  than  a  week,  yet  it 
seemed  to  them  all  vastly  longer.  To  Mae  it  was 
more  like  a  year.  She  was  not  at  all  happy  at  the 
outcome  of  her  plan.  No  one  in  all  the  world  had 
ever  expressed  such  opinions  of  things,  especially 
opinions  of  herself. 

Meantime,  two  of  Fate's  brews  were  a-simmer.  The 
first  was  concerned  with  young  Paul  Price,  Miss 
Frona  Abbot,  and  Babe.  Paul  and  Babe  had  become 
the  best  of  friends  with  hardly  a  second's  hesitation. 
They  were  both  from  the  West;  they  both  loved 
Uncle  Adam.  And  Adam  was  delighted  with  the 
turn.  Nevertheless,  Miss  Abbot  was  a  handsome, 
stylish  young  lady,  not  only  past  master  of  the  arts 
and  artificialities,  so  often  fatally  alluring,  but  she 

95 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

did  not  propose  to  lose  Paul  Price  to  a  "  Western 
cowboy  girl  "  without  a  fight,  and  her  hold  was  a 
prior  location. 

The  second  brew  more  nearly  concerned  Adam 
Croswell,  who  as  yet  was  uninvolved.  His  friend 
Will  Sloane  had  lived  abroad  and  there  met  Beatrice 
Graham,  with  whom,  to  all  practical  purposes,  he 
had  fixedly  fallen  in  love.  It  had  been  at  the  time 
of  her  stress  and  care,  with  Graham  locked  up  in  a 
madhouse.  Will  had  breathed  no  word  of  his  feel- 
ing, not  only  because  of  his  honor  as  a  man,  but  like- 
wise because  of  his  nature.  He  was  shy,  self-de- 
preciatory, and  convinced  of  his  own  unworthiness 
in  an  extraordinary  degree.  Despite  the  fact  his 
emotion  had  amounted  to  worship  there  was  no  one 
who  knew  him  that  knew. 

It  had  never  been  guessed  by  Beatrice ;  it  had  never 
been  uttered  to  Adam.  But  the  crisis  for  Will  was 
approaching.  He  had  learned,  a  month  before  Babe's 
advent  on  the  scene,  that  Beatrice  was  here.  He  had 
gone  to  her,  swiftly,  eager  as  before  to  achieve 
any  possible  kindness  to  aid  her  on  her  way.  He 
had  learned  the  truth  respecting  Graham's  end — 
and  hopes  had  risen  in  his  breast.  Without  in  the 
least  suspecting  that  Beatrice  and  Adam  had  ever  so 
much  as  met,  he  was  battling  now  against  himself 
in  his  wish  for  Adam's  aid. 

No  less  than  seven  times,  at  least,  he  had  come  to 
Adam  with  the  full  intent  of  seeking  a  friend's  advice. 
He  had  failed  for  sheer  diffidence  of  heart.  When 

96 


An  Instrument  of  Fate 

Babe  arrived  upon  the  scene  he  had  feared  still  more 
to  speak.  Adam,  he  daily  discerned,  was  changing. 
Babe  was  arousing  his  fire.  Croswell  was  launching 
tentatively  forth  with  new,  strange  doctrines  of  mar- 
riage and  affairs  between  the  mated  couples  of  the 
world. 

During  that  first  uncertain  week  of  Babe's  descent 
upon  the  house,  Will  watched  her  and  studied  her 
ways.  He  had  liked  her  from  the  first.  He  presently 
found  a  newer  sort  of  confidence  arising  in  himself 
as  one  of  the  many  surprising  outcomes  of  having 
Mae's  niece  in  the  field.  He  was  once  more  approach- 
ing that  courageous  frame  of  mind  in  which  it  might 
be  possible  to  ask  for  Adam's  counsel,  when  a  thor- 
oughly unexpected  reverse  in  a  business  venture  he 
had  recently  undertaken,  made  immediate  assistance 
from  some  friendly  quarter  absolutely  imperative. 
And  Adam  was  the  one  particular  friend  to  whom  he 
felt  he  could  go. 

Only  one  more  element,  after  that,  was  demanded 
by  the  Fates.  And  Mae  was  chosen  as  the  instru- 
ment to  bring  affairs  about.  Perhaps  the  shock  sup- 
plied to  her  system  by  having  more  of  Babe  and  less 
of  herself  to  dwell  upon  had  quickened  her  also  with 
life.  Whatsoever  the  cause,  the  fact  remains  that 
certain  social  duties  so  oppressed  her  with  a  sense  of 
her  own  remissness  that  she  made  a  dozen  calls  in 
two  short  afternoons.  The  one  significant  feature 
of  this  unexpected  activity  lay  in  a  new  ambition 
aroused  in  her  nature  by  a  friend. 

97 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

Her  friend  had  proudly  exhibited  an  exquisite  mini- 
ature portrait  recently  painted  of  herself.  Not  only 
did  Mae  determine  at  once  to  provide  the  gift  of  a 
similar  treasure  against  Adam's  fast  approaching 
birthday,  but  she  was  driven  forthwith  to  the  studio 
of  Beatrice  Graham,  who  produced  these  gems  of  art. 


CHAPTER  V 

MAE  AND  BEATRICE 

THE  studio  was  far  from  the  track  of  New  York's 
modern  institutions.  It  was  over  near  Stuyvesant 
Square,  which,  though  it  once  had  been  the  city's 
fashionable  quarter,  had  long  since  been  abandoned 
to  rapid  encroachments  of  the  foreign  population. 

Beatrice  was  at  home,  and  at  work,  when  Mae  ap- 
peared at  the  entrance  door  and  was  duly  ushered 
in.  Despite  the  unadorning  apron,  or  smock,  which 
she  wore  when  thus  engaged,  she  was,  nevertheless,  a 
woman  of  striking,  exceptional  beauty.  She  had 
lost  no  whit  of  her  slender,  but  roundly  modeled,  per- 
fection of  figure,  nor  a  shade  of  her  exquisite  color. 
Her  hair  was  a  darker  golden-brown,  but  without 
a  strand  of  silver.  In  her  warm-gray  eyes,  with  their 
wondrously  contrasted  brows  of  black,  burned  a  light 
of  immortal  youth. 

The  contrast  between  the  two  was  sharp,  as  they 
stood  for  a  moment  face  to  face.  It  was  not  that 
Mae  was  plain.  She  possessed  a  certain  pleasant- 
ness of  her  own  that  was  closely  related  to  beauty. 
But  she  was  grayish — not  in  her  neutrally  tinted  hair, 

99 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

but  more  in  her  face,  and  even,  perhaps,  in  her  man- 
ner. Her  eyes  lacked  sparkle,  or  interest  in  life. 
Her  lips  were  smileless  and  colorless.  A  doll-like 
fixity  of  expression  remained  unchangeably  upon  her 
face,  even  when  she  spoke.  She  was  decidedly  plump, 
elegantly  gowned,  faultlessly  groomed — and  bank- 
rupt as  to  animation. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Graham  ?  "  she  said  as  she 
entered.  "  I  hope  you  shan't  mind  my  sitting  down 
at  once — I  found  your  stairs  so  fatiguing."  She 
moved  towards  a  chair  which  Beatrice  hastened  to 
provide. 

"  I  trust,"  she  continued,  without  awaiting  a  reply, 
"  you  will  pardon  my  coming  as  I  have,  so  unan- 
nounced and  informally,  but  I  have  just  been  calling 
on  my  friend,  Mrs.  Boone,  whose  miniature  I  believe 
you  painted,  and  I  wish  to  arrange  for  one  at 
once." 

"  Oh,"  said  Beatrice.  "  You  are  very  kind  to 
come.  I  thoroughly  appreciate  the  friendly  interest 
on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Boone,  but  I  don't  believe  she 
could  have  mentioned  the  name  of  any  friend 

"  Oh,  no,  she  knew  nothing  about  it  till  this  after- 
noon," Mae  interrupted.  "  I  should  have  introduced 
myself  at  once.  I  am  Mrs.  Croswell — Mrs.  Adam 
Croswell.  I  only  made  up  my  mind  an  hour  ago,  and 
I  hope  you  can  paint  me  very  soon  as  I  wish  the 
portrait  for  a  present." 

Beatrice  did  not  precisely  start — except  within 
her  breast. 

100 


Mae  and  Beatrice 

His  wife !  Mrs.  Adam  Croswell !  And  here  in  this 
studio — upon  this  extraordinary  errand ! 

The  color  flamed  up  in  her  face,  and  her  eyes  were 
fixed  and  burning.  She  could  scarcely  believe  her 
senses,  for  a  moment,  and  then  she  was  filled  with 
vague  suspicions.  Had  Adam  learned  of  her  pres- 
ence here — come  upon  knowledge  of  her  actual  need 
— sent  his  own  wife  for  a  portrait?  An  impulse  of 
resentment  surged  in  her  mind  at  the  thought. 
Nevertheless,  she  stared  at  the  woman  sitting  in  the 
chair  with  a  new,  inquisitive  interest.  His  wife! 
The  woman  the  Fates  had  decreed  should  take  the 
place  once  apparently  alloted  to  herself! 

A  thousand  thoughts  and  speculations  ran  through 
her  brain  like  streams  of  fire.  Did  Mrs.  Croswell 
know — know  the  story  of  the  past?  Was  she  making 
Adam  happy?  Was  she  always  like  this,  with  her 
dull  yet  confident  manner?  Had  she  actually  come 
here  by  accident,  or  did  something  lie  behind  the  af- 
fair in  addition  to  mere  coincidence? 

She  could  answer  none  of  these  questions.  The 
wholly  unexpected  nature  of  the  happening  beset  her 
with  wonder  and  surprise.  She  had  almost  instantly 
decided  to  deny  this  woman's  request.  For  years 
she  had  fought  down,  successfully,  the  strongest  im- 
pulse of  her  life — the  impulse  to  address  herself  to 
Adam  and  release  the  love  that  had  tugged  with  such 
might  at  her  heart.  She  had  lost  his  love  and  lost 
her  worldly  happiness  through  infamy  and  wrong. 
She  had  suffered  incredible  agonies  of  self-denial, 

101 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

self-reproval,  and  vain,  belated  regret.  She  had 
lived  in  a  dream-world  all  her  own,  in  which  the  Fates 
had  yoked  her  life  to  his.  She  had  striven  towards 
nobility  in  a  wish  to  be  worthy  to  love  him  still, 
though  their  lives  were  forever  apart. 

Every  selfish  emotion  she  had  stiffled,  on  coming 
again  to  New  York.  She  had  triumphed  definitely 
and  finally  against  her  unreasoning  heart.  It  seemed 
unfair,  even  infamous  of  Fate,  to  bring  her  his  wife 
like  this ! 

Yet  she  had  not  decided  after  all.  Beatrice  was 
essentially  feminine.  The  element  of  curiosity  had 
not  been  omitted  from  her  human  composition. 
Moreover,  she  was  thoroughly  courteous  and  thought- 
ful. Her  thoughts  had  flashed  across  her  inward 
vision  instantly.  Mae,  if  she  noted  the  change  of 
color  in  Mrs.  Graham's  face,  or  was  vaguely  aware 
of  the  artist's  confusion,  was  kept  but  a  moment 
unanswered. 

"  Mrs.  Adam  Croswell,"  Beatrice  repeated,  turning 
away  to  a  table,  apparently  to  rearrange  her  paints 
and  palette.  "  Do  you  know  Mrs.  Boone  very  well  ?  " 
The  question  was  not  significant,  it  merely  gained  a 
moment  more  of  time. 

"  Quite  well,  socially,"  said  Mae.  "  I  admired  her 
miniature  very  much.  How  soon  could  you  paint  me 
if  I  paid  a  little  extra?  The  price  is  not  so  much 
an  object  as  the  time.  I  wish  the  picture  as  a  pres- 
ent for  Mr.  Croswell,  very  soon — so  I  hope  it  need  not 
be  delayed." 

102 


Mae  and  Beatrice 

Beatrice  sat  down. 

*'  Does  your  husband  know  nothing  about  it?  " 

"  Oh,  certainly  not,"  said  Mae,  in  her  calm  and 
colorless  utterance.  "  I  wish  it  to  be  a  surprise — 
a  birthday  surprise." 

To  Beatrice  the  irony  of  her  possible  employment 
in  painting  such  a  birthday  gift  as  Adam's  wife 
was  now  suggesting,  all  but  coerced  her  to  smile. 
Ready  in  one  hot  second  to  repudiate  the  proffered 
employment,  she  was  questioning,  in  the  next,  the 
ultimate  wish  of  her  heart.  It  might  be  almost  a 
secret  joy  to  create  this  birthday  remembrance.  The 
work  would  be  hers,  the  service  hers — and  hers  the 
real  love  that  beautified  the  gift!  Yet  she  did  not 
decide  even  then. 

She  said,  "  How  much  do  you  care  to  ex- 
pend? " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  care  particularly  about  the  price," 
said  Mae.  "  I  want  the  best  you  can  paint." 

Mentally  Beatrice  raised  her  brows  at  Mrs.  Cros- 
well's  indifference  to  the  drain  upon  Adam's  purse. 
She  continued  with  the  business  inquiries. 

"  How  often  could  you  arrange  for  sittings  ?  " 

"  Every  day,  perhaps — if  I  find  I  am  not  too 
fatigued.  I  am  not  at  all  well  or  strong.  How 
many  sittings  shall  you  need?  " 

"  I  have  sometimes  required  ten,"  said  Beatrice. 
"  That  could  be  determined  later.  You  would  wish, 
of  course,  to  come  here  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  I  shall  certainly  wish  to  keep  it  a 
103 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

secret  from  Mr.  Croswell.  Could  you  make  a  be- 
ginning to-day  ?  " 

Beatrice  slightly  flushed. 

"  It  has  not  been  entirely  determined  that  I  can 
undertake  the  work." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  haven't  decided  to 
paint  me?  "  said  Mae,  in  thorough  astonishment.  "  I 
thought,  of  course,  it  was  settled.  If  it's  anything 
about  the  price " 

"  It  is  nothing  about  the  price,"  Beatrice  inter- 
rupted. "  It  isn't  that."  She  arose  and  went  to 
the  table,  her  mind  in  a  conflict  of  emotions. 

"  Then  what  in  the  world  could  it  be?  Isn't  it  pos- 
sible to  make  as  nice  a  miniature  of  me  as  it  was  of 
Mrs.  Boone?  " 

Beatrice  almost  smiled  again.  But  the  moment 
was  ill-fitted  for  mirth.  She  knew  she  must  face  this 
indecision  and  face  it  without  delay.  She  needed 
every  penny  she  could  earn.  She  had  longed  to  give 
some  objective  expression  to  the  love  she  must  always 
bear  the  man  now  far  without  her  hope.  She  could 
still  remain  aloof  from  his  world ;  she  had  not  sought 
to  thrust  herself  upon  his  attention,  or  dreamed  of 
seeking  his  aid. 

There  was  one  more  element  in  the  situation  that 
urged  her  towards  acceptance  of  the  work:  She  was 
certain  the  woman  before  her  now  was  in  absolute 
ignorance  of  the  past  relationship  between  herself  and 
Adam.  Not  only,  therefore,  was  Mrs.  Croswell  at- 
tempting no  humiliating  patronage,  but  she  must,  as 

104 


Mae  and  Beatrice 

the  days  went  by,  afford  at  least  a  dim  reflection  of 
Adam's  very  self.  Certain  intimate  facts  of  his  daily 
life  must  creep  from  the  silence  through  his  wife.  It 
might  almost  be  possible  to  learn  the  one  great  thing 
of  all  the  things  to  know — was  he  happy,  loved — 
contented  in  his  home? 

There  was,  of  course,  no  valid  excuse  to  offer  in 
support  of  a  possible  refusal  of  the  offer.  In  sud- 
den obedience  to  an  impulse  surging  stronger  and 
stronger  in  her  bosom,  Beatrice  decided. 

"  So  many  are  in  haste  for  their  work,"  she  said, 
mentally  applying  the  observation  to  anything  and 
everything  in  general,  since  she  herself  was  not  in 
the  least  so  over-taxed.  "  But  perhaps  in  a  case 
of  especial  need  I  might  arrange  to  meet  your 
wishes." 

"  I  certainly  hope  so !  "  Mae  exclaimed.  "  Now 
what  about  beginning  me  to-day  ?  " 

"  I  shall  have  to  procure  a  special  bit  of  ivory," 
Beatrice  answered.  "  I  haven't  a  piece  so  fine  as 
Mrs.  Boone's  on  hand.  I  can  have  it  here  to-morrow, 
however,  in  the  morning,  if  you  wish." 

Mae  rose.  "  Very  well.  I'll  'phone,  if  you'll  give 
me  your  number.  And  perhaps  you'd  better  take 
mine.  It's  my  private  wire.  The  number  isn't 
printed  in  the  book.  It's  only  for  Mr.  Croswell  ajid 
a  few  of  my  intimate  friends."  She  supplied  the 
number,  received  the  card  that  Beatrice  had  written, 
and  held  out  her  white-gloved  hand.  "  Good-by," 
she  added.  "  Mrs.  Boone  told  me  of  the  social  po- 

105 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

sition  you  have  occupied,  so  I  hope  we  may  always 
be  friends." 

Beatrice  made  no  attempt,  at  this,  to  repress  the 
smile  that  arose  to  her  lips.  The  something  childish, 
which  had  never  been  more  than  faintly  modified  in 
Mae's  composition,  projected  through  and  made  of- 
fense impossible.  That  she  had  not  intended  to 
patronize,  exactly,  was  something  that  Beatrice 
understood. 

"  Good-by,"  she  replied.  "  I  shall  look  for  you 
to-morrow." 


106 


CHAPTER  VI 

A    LINGERING    FONDNESS 

THE  portrait  was  commenced.  With  the  spell  of 
something  positively  novel  to  occupy  her  mind,  Mae 
had  been  twice  within  the  week  to  sit  before  Beatrice 
Graham.  An  hour  on  Wednesday  and  nearly  as  much 
on  Thursday  afternoon  had  been  given  in  a  spirit 
approximating  enthusiasm. 

It  was  not  altogether  Mae's  sense  of  delight  in 
beholding  the  delicately  colored  and  highly  flattering 
shadow  of  herself  take  form  upon  the  ivory;  she  en- 
joyed the  secrecy  from  Adam  and  the  buying  of  some- 
thing new.  Moreover,  for  some  peculiar  reason,  she 
enjoyed  the  studio  itself.  Beatrice  led  her  to  talk, 
evinced  a  quiet  interest  in  all  her  trivial  affairs,  and 
studied  her,  always,  with  such  an  attention  as  no  other 
woman  she  had  known  had  ever  cared  to  bestow. 

Her  childlessness  had  been  revealed — and  Beatrice 
rejoiced.  It  was  wicked,  she  felt,  to  feel  this  sense 
of  exultation,  but  Mae  had  appeared  so  utterly  selfish 
in  her  triumph  over  motherhood  that  it  could  not 
seem  even  negative  wrong  to  harbor  a  species  of 
gladness.  There  was  everything  worldly  to  provoke 
a  jealous  hatred  in  the  heart  of  the  woman  who 

107 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

worked — yet  she  fought  off  the  poison,  and  won.  If 
at  times  the  luxury,  the  ease  and  self-complacency 
surrounding  Mae  Croswell  seemed  almost  insupport- 
able, in  the  light  of  her  own  bitter  struggle,  her 
long,  hard  punishment,  and  barrenness  of  existence, 
Beatrice  rose  to  a  new,  fine  strength  with  which  to 
plod  her  way. 

On  Friday  Mae  returned  again,  but  remained  for 
a  brief  time  only.  Reactions  had  frequently  come 
upon  her  delights  with  even  greater  despatch.  She 
had  come  rather  late  to  the  studio,  and  had  barely 
occupied  the  chair  where  she  posed  for  eight  or  ten 
minutes,  when  with  a  sudden  recollection  of  a  doctor 
— a  specialist  on  nerves — whose  name  and  address  had 
been  supplied  by  the  same  Mrs.  Boone  who  had  started 
her  off  for  a  portrait,  she  was  seized  with  an  utter 
change  of  thought. 

The  work  for  the  day  was  dismissed.  Her  alarm 
had  been  heightened  by  some  trivial  sign  of  weari- 
ness assaulting  her  nerves,  and  away  she  flew  at  once. 
By  five  o'clock  she  had  undergone  a  new,  mild  fright 
at  the  hands  of  the  specialist,  then  had  half  formed 
a  programme  of  flight  to  the  South,  and  was  home 
and  in  bed  for  a  rest. 

Adam,  delayed  at  his  office  past  the  family  hour 
for  dining,  repaired  to  a  restaurant,  satisfied  his 
hunger,  and  arrived  up-town  at  eight.  Mae  was  re- 
ported asleep.  Babe  was  alone  in  the  library,  at- 
tempting to  amuse  herself  by  reading.  She  was 
dressed  in  her  prettiest  frock. 

108 


A  Lingering  Fondness 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Adam,  crossing  the  floor,  "  I 
thought  I  heard  sounds  of  cheer  and  hilarity,  but  I 
don't  see  Paul  after  all." 

Babe  leaned  back  for  his  kiss. 

"  Hum !  Paul !  "  she  said.  "  Cheer  and  hilarity 
with  Paul !  If  he  ever  catches  me  putting  on  my  best 
bib  and  tucker  for  him  again,  when  he  suddenly  re- 
members an  engagement  with  Frona  Abbot,  and 
maybe  never  intended  to  come  at  all,  you  can  lock  me 
up  in  a  trunk  and  swallow  the  key !  " 

Adam  pulled  open  a  drawer  in  the  desk,  took  out  a 
cigar  from  an  open  box,  lit  up,  and  sat  down  near  at 
hand. 

"  That  sounds  as  if  Paul  might  just  possibly  prove 
acceptable  company — if  ever  you  got  a  chance," 
he  said.  "  Do  you  find  him  sort  of  half-way  like- 
able? " 

"  If  ever  I  could  find  him  at  all  I  might  find  out," 
Babe  answered  frankly,  tossing  her  book  on  the  table. 
"  Miss  Abbot's  mortgage  is  a  regular  Johnny  on  the 
spot." 

Adam  chuckled. 

"  Maybe  you're  just  a  bit  slow  with  these  Eastern 
bronchos,  Babe.  I  didn't  know,  of  course,  whether 
you'd  care  to  throw  your  rope  on  such  a  half -grown 
colt  or  not." 

Babe  sat  far  back  in  her  chair,  a  quizzical  smile  on 
her  face. 

"  Well,  I  haven't  said  I  would.  But  he's  better 
than  nothing — and  he's  awfully  cute." 

109 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

Adam  regarded  her  amusedly,  through  clouds  of  his 
fragrant  smoke. 

"  Do  you  know  you're  the  most  natural  little  crea- 
ture in  all  this  part  of  the  world?  " 

She  looked  at  him  in  innocence. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"  You  don't  make  the  slightest  bones  of  the  fact 
that  you  wish,  some  day,  to  be  married." 

Babe  was  surprised. 

"  Why,  of  course  I  want  to  get  married — and  have 
a  family." 

Adam  repressed  a  note  of  commingled  emo- 
tions. 

"A  family,  hey?  Cats,  canary  birds,  or  Boston 
terriers  ?  " 

"  No,  sir !  "  said  Babe,  emphatically.  "  About 
three  boys  and  two  girls !  " 

Adam  puffed  prodigiously.  "  Say,  Babe,"  he  an- 
swered gravely,  "  you'll  land  in  some  museum, 
presently." 

"Museum?"  she  echoed,  with  her  soft,  delightful 
accent  of  mirth.  "  New  York's  the  biggest  museum 
I  ever  saw !  What's  the  matter  with  the  people  here, 
anyway?  The  men  all  work  so  hard  they  never  have 
time  to  get  sick  and  the  women  work  so  little  they 
never  have  time  to  be  well." 

Adam  blinked  in  his  smoke. 

"  I  thought  the  women  worked  pretty  strenuously 
— at  bridge,  doctoring,  having  operations,  spending 
money,  and  leaving  town." 

110 


A  Lingering  Fondness 

Babe  was  perfectly  serious.  Her  brows  were 
knitted  in  gravity. 

"  Yes,  but  that  don't  count  like  cooking,  and 
washing,  and  having  children." 

"  They  don't  have  many  children."  He  stared  at 
the  rings  of  smoke. 

"  No,  they  have  dogs  and  nervous  prostration." 

He  glanced  at  the  strangely  wise  little  person 
sharply. 

"  You're  pretty  strong  on  this  children  game, 
aren't  you,  Babe?  " 

"  You  love  them  too !  "  she  retorted.  "  You  know 
you  do,  Uncle  Adam.  Look  at  Emily,  and  the  way 
you  love  that  kid !  " 

"  Well,"  said  Adam,  half  apologetically,  "  she's 
the  only  one  on  the  block — and  I'm  sort  of  behind 
the  times." 

Babe  arose  and  standing  behind  his  seat,  ran  her 
hands  through  his  strong,  abundant  hair.  Her  voice 
was  exceptionally  serious  as  she  asked : 

"  Why  don't  you  have  some  of  your  own  ?  " 

Adam  glanced  up  in  ill-concealed  astonishment. 

"  Say,  look  here,  Babe,"  he  demanded,  "  what's  on 
your  mind  ?  " 

She  sat  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  her  hand  at  rest 
upon  his  shoulder. 

"  I'm  sorry  for  you  and  Aunt  Mae,  that's  all.  I 
don't  think  this  is  any  way  to  live.  It's  all  upside 
down.  These  New  York  people  try  to  have  so  much 
fun  they  don't  have  a  thing  but  doctors  and  changes 

111 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

of  climate  and  divorces — not  a  bit  of  love — or 
anything." 

Adam  was  getting  past  astonishment.  "  Don't  we 
have  any  love?  " 

Babe  shot  a  characteristic  barb,  too  softened  by 
affection  to  sting. 

"  Oh,  you've  got  a  kind  you  can  wear  for  com- 
pany, but  not  the  kind  I  should  want  in  my  family." 

Adam  was  silent  for  a  moment,  stunned  by  the  truth 
of  her  remark. 

"  Well,  maybe  after  we  get  older  we  change  the 
kind,  or  can  even  get  along  with  less." 

Babe's  next  observation  was  tinged  by  curiosity. 

"  Were  you  very  much  in  love,  Uncle  Adam,  when 
you  married  Aunt  Mae  ?  " 

Adam  wondered  how  far  this  inquisition  might 
proceed. 

"  Oh — enough  so  that  I  got  married,"  he  answered 
honestly,  then  suddenly  realizing  how  his  words  might 
be  interpreted,  he  hastened  to  add :  "  Yes,  yes — I 
guess  I  was.  Of  course  I  was  in  love,  Babe.  Why 
do  you  ask  such  a  question  ?  " 

She  rumpled  his  hair. 

"  I  just  wanted  to  know.  Did  you  ever  have  more 
than  one  sweetheart  ?  " 

Adam's  heart  gave  a  thump,  so  much  and  so  fondly 
had  he  thought  all  day  of  Beatrice.  But  he  laughed. 

"Did  you?" 

"  Why,  certainly,"  said  Babe.  "  Everybody  has, 
if  they  tell  the  truth.  Now,  tell  me  honestly  how 

112 


A  Lingering  Fondness 

many  you  had  before  Mae.      You  know   I'll  never 
tell." 

"  Hum,"  said  Adam,  reflectively,  half  closing  his 
eyes  as  he  spoke.  "  Just  this  afternoon  I  chanced 
across  a  tin-type  of  an  old  sweetheart  of  mine."  He 
did  not  add  that  the  poor  little  shadow  of  Beatrice 
had  stirred  the  very  deeps  of  all  his  nature,  for  of 
that  he  was  almost  afraid. 

Babe  was  delighted. 

"  I'll  bet  you  loved  her,  too,  Uncle  Adam,  or  you 
wouldn't  have  kept  it  so  long.  You  did — you  did, 
now,  didn't  you?  " 

He  tried  to  laugh  it  off.     "  I  didn't  marry  her." 

Babe  demanded,  "  Why  not?  " 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Fate,  I  guess.  The 
other  fellow  cheated — cheated — an  infamous,  dam- 
nable  "  He  checked  himself  abruptly. 

Babe  had  been  intensely  impressed. 

"  I  knew  you  loved  her ! "  she  said  in  a  passionate 
delight  and  sympathy.  "  I  knew  you  loved  her,  Uncle 
Adam !  " 

Adam  was  alarmed.  "  Now  hold  on,  little  girl," 
he  admonished,  "  I  love  your  Aunt  Mae  very  dearly." 

"  Why,  of  course  you  do  !  "  Babe  answered  readily. 
"  What's  that  got  to  do  with  the  case  ?  Just  suppose 
the  other  fellow  hadn't  cheated." 

"  But  he  did,"  said  Adam,  a  trifle  uneasily.  "  That 
settles  it." 

Babe  persisted.  "  And  you  never  loved  her  any 
more — that  first,  real  sweetheart?  " 

113 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

After  all,  the  balm  was  sweet  to  his  heart. 

"  I  don't  say  that." 

"  Where  is  she  now  ?  " 

"  I've  often  wondered,"  he  confessed.  "  I'm  not 
even  sure  I  know  her  married  name."  It  had  recently 
occurred  to  his  mind  that  "  Percy  " — the  only  name 
by  which  he  knew  the  man  she  had  married — might 
be  but  a  given  appellation. 

Babe  was  disappointed,  "  I  don't  believe  you  loved 
her  very  much  after  all." 

Adam  smiled  at  her  earnestness. 

"  I  have  only  confessed  to  a  lingering  fondness, 
Babe,  and  I  don't  know  why  I  have  told  so  much  as 
that." 

"  Well,  I  know  why,"  she  asserted  frankly.  "  It's 
just  Aunt  Mae! " 

Adam  raised  his  hand  in  alarm.  She  was  far  too 
near  the  truth. 

"  Now  hold  on,  Babe.     I " 

Babe  interrupted  with  spirit. 

"  Isn't  she  Papa's  own  sister?  I  guess  I've  got  a 
right  to  say  something !  And  it's  all  your  fault,  let- 
ting her  think  about  herself  all  day,  and  never  having 
anything  to  do !  I  don't  see  what  fun  there  is  in 
it  for  anybody.  With  all  your  big  lot  of  money  she's 
as  miserable  as  a  fly  in  the  cream  and  no  more  com- 
fort to  anyone  else  around." 

Adam  suddenly  rose  and  paced  the  floor. 

"  Babe,"  he  said,  "  you're  refreshingly,  almost 
shockingly  honest — but — do  keep  off  the  grass." 

114 


A  Lingering  Fondness 

Babe  was  instantly  all  contrition.  She  met  him, 
made  him  halt  for  a  kiss,  and  urged  him  again  to- 
wards his  chair. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  say  anything,"  she  protested. 
"  I'm  real  sorry  for  Aunt  Mae.  I'll  forget  all  about 
it,  if  you'll  tell  me  the  story  of  that  old-time  sweet- 
heart of  yours." 

Adam  halted  by  the  table  and  uttered  the  single 
word,  "  Nope." 

Babe  was  undiscouraged. 

"Was  she  beautiful?" 

Adam  looked  attentively  at  the  lighted  end  of  his 
weed.  His  mind  went  back  to  fireside  dreams  and 
the  face  he  had  always  seen. 

"  Some  ways  she  was  the  most "  he  started, 

but  it  ended :  "  I  don't  remember." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  do,"  she  insisted,  clinging  to  his 
arm.  "  What  was  her  name — the  name  you  called 
her  by?" 

"  Her  name  was Look  here,  Babe,"  he  de- 
manded, "  what  in  thunder  possesses  you  to  stir  all 
this  up  again  to-night  ?  " 

She  confessed  ingenuously :  "  I  love  to  hear  about 
other  people's  love." 

It  was  duty  that  prodded  his  answer. 

"  Then  why  don't  you  talk  about  Mae  ?  " 

"  Why,  I'd  never  think  of  such  a  thing !  "  admitted 
Babe,  once  more  on  the  arm  of  his  seat.  "  She  doesn't 
seem  connected  with  love,  or  to  love  anyone  in  the 
world  but  herself,  unless  it's  Fifi,  a  little." 

115 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

Adam  turned  very  red.  The  necessity  for  Mae'r. 
defense  was  another  unspontaneous  duty. 

"  Why,  certainly  she  does — she  loves  us  all.  It's 
just  her  way." 

Babe  had  her  own  opinions  and  detested  argument 
so  profitless.  She  tacked  to  her  more  attractive 
theme. 

"  Did  your  other  sweetheart  love  you  the  way 
you'd  like  to  be  loved?  " 

"  Babe,  what  did  I  say  about  the  grass  ?  Listen ! 
That  must  have  been  the  bell." 

"  Oh ! "  interrupted  Babe,  in  the  sudden  romantic 
delight  of  possibilities,  "  wouldn't  it  be  wonderful  to 
see  your  old  sweetheart  come  walking  right  in,  after 
all  these  years  and  you  thinking  about  her  all 
day?" 

Adam  said,  "  Babe,  you're  a  terror."  He  turned 
at  the  sound  of  a  footstep  in  the  hall  and  beheld 
Will  Sloane  at  the  door.  "  Ah,  Will,  I  thought  it 
might  be  you,"  he  added.  "  Come  in — come  in. 
You're  just  in  time  to  save  my  life — or  Babe's." 

Sloane  came  in  smilingly.  He  was  a  tall,  slender 
person,  with  kindly  brown  eyes,  a  thin  growth  of 
iron-gray  hair,  a  small  imperial  and  a  short  mustache, 
far  darker  than  his  hair. 

"  I  presume  it  is  safe,"  he  said  good-naturedly. 
"  What  is  the  bone  of  contention  ?  " 

It  was  Babe  who  answered. 

"  Uncle  Adam  is  falling  in  love  again — and  I  don't 
blame  him ! " 

116 


A  Lin  germ  g  Fondness 

Adam  had  risen.  He  threw  up  his  hands  in  a 
gesture  of  helplessness. 

"  Heavens  and  earth ! "  he  said,  "  what  will  the 
West  produce  next?  Will,  have  a  smoke?"  He 
pulled  out  the  drawer  of  the  desk  and  offered  Sloane 
the  cigars. 

"  I'll  just  leave  it  to  you,  Mr.  Sloane,"  said  Babe, 
as  the  visitor  prepared  to  join  in  Adam's  solace. 
"  What  do  you  think  about  these  New  York 
women  ?  " 

Will  took  a  chair  to  which  Adam  silently  waved 
him. 

"  Well,  I'm  not  aware  that  I  am  any  particular 
judge,"  he  said,  "  but  I'm  sure  I  agree  with  you 
about  them,  whatever  your  opinion.  By  the  way, 
Adam,  did  you  see  that  Curtis  and  his  wife  are  to 
have  a  divorce  after  all?  " 

Adam  said,  "No.     Really?" 

"  The  papers  are  full  of  it  this  evening." 

Babe  put  in  a  query:  "Are  they  rich?" 

"  Why,  yes — prosperous,"  said  their  visitor. 
"  You  might  say  rich." 

Adam  was  lighting  a  fresh  cigar  and  Babe 
continued : 

"  Have  they  got  any  children  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Will.     "  Oh,  no." 

Babe  naively  remarked :    "  That's  what  I  thought." 

Adam  puffed  fire  and  smoke  together  from  his 
match. 

"  Court  proceedings,  notoriety,  and  all  the  rest  of 
117 


The  Pillar  a  of  Eden 

it,"  he  commented  dryly.  "  I  wonder  which  will  be 
awarded  the  custody  of  the  dog." 

Babe  was  quick  to  score.  "  So  they've  got  a 
family  just  like  yours,  Uncle  Adam." 

"  Say,  Babe,"  said  her  uncle,  gravely,  "  isn't  there 
any  excuse  for  you  to  take  a  good  long  walk  and 
cool  off  your  pulse?  " 

Babe  said,  "  I've  been  wanting  to  go  for  a  walk — 
with  you.  Can't  we  all  go  walking  together?  It 
isn't  late,  or  cold." 

Adam  was  remarking,  "  Oh,  take  something 
fashionable,  like "  when  Annie,  the  maid,  ap- 
peared most  opportunely  at  the  door,  with  Mae's 
darling  dog  on  a  chain. 

"  Here  is  Fifi,  if  you  please,  Miss  Nickerson,"  she 
announced  in  a  gentle  interruption.  "  Mrs.  Croswell 
asked  if  you  would  be  so  kind  as  to  give  him  some 
air." 

"  Gee !  "  said  Babe,  disgustedly.  "  Fifi !  Hot  air 
ought  to  be  good  enough  for  a  dog,  when  all  the  rest 
of  us  get  it  all  the  time !  Uncle  Adam,  I  want  to 
go  out  with  something  that  can  talk !  " 

"  No  parrots  in  the  house,"  replied  her  uncle. 
"  Look  at  the  poor  beast  beg." 

Babe  started  for  the  door  reluctantly. 

"  Oh,  I  know  I've  got  to  take  him,  or  Aunt  Mae  will 
think  she's  insulted.  But  I  hope  he'll  find  another 
dog  and  fight!  " 

She  received  the  chain  and  Fifi  leaped  in  gladness. 


118 


CHAPTER  VII 

TEMPTATION 

ALL  Saturday  morning  Mae  was  indisposed.  Her 
breakfast  was  taken  in  bed.  Adam  and  Babe  had 
frequently  found  themselves  thus  alone  at  the  table. 
And  often  Adam  had  kissed  his  wife  good-by  for  the 
day  before  she  stirred  from  her  couch. 

To-day  she  permitted  his  departure  to  the  office 
without  the  slightest  hint  of  her  latest  intentions. 
When  all  her  preparations  for  her  contemplated 
Southern  trip  were  concluded  she  would  finally  impart 
her  programme. 

Adam  had  planned  a  theater  party,  for  themselves 
and  Babe  and  Paul.  Mae  promptly  begged  to  be 
excused.  She  had  'phoned  to  Frona  Abbot,  suggest- 
ing a  drive  in  the  park — desiring  Frona's  aid  con- 
cerning certain  millinery  ambitions — and  had  also 
agreed  to  sit  to  Beatrice  Graham,  later  in  the  day. 
She  expected  to  be  wearied;  she  was  certain  an 
evening  with  Babe  and  the  others  would  be  more 
than  her  nerves  could  support.  The  excuse  she 
made  to  her  husband  neglected  all  mention  of  her 
plans,  but  yet  sufficed.  Adam  had  learned  that  the 

119 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

only  safe  method  was  surrender  before  she  began. 
He  turned  away  to  face  his  office  grind  as  he  had  a 
thousand  times. 

Babe  spent  the  morning  alone,  trudging  through 
a  section  of  the  huge  Metropolitan  Museum  of 
Natural  History. 

"  Gee ! "  she  said  to  her  uncle,  as  her  amusements 
for  the  day  were  discussed,  "  it's  an  awful  relief  to 
get  over  there,  where  you  know  all  those  things  are 
dead  and  you  don't  expect  anything  else !  " 

At  one  o'clock  the  newest  doctor  came  and  com- 
manded that  Mae  should  rest.  Singularly  enough,  his 
advice  precisely  accorded  with  Mae's  strongest  wishes 
and  self-diagnosis  of  her  needs. 

In  accordance  with  her  doctor's  counsel  she  'phoned 
to  Beatrice,  later,  requesting  her  to  come  at  three 
o'clock.  The  drive  could  be  abbreviated  and  the  sit- 
ting at  home  would  spare  her  strength. 

To  Beatrice  Graham,  alone,  hard  at  work  upon 
some  needed  sewing,  and  unprepared  for  Mae's  de- 
mand, this  new  and  unlocked  for  development  of  the 
situation  between  herself  and  Adam's  wife  came  with 
the  shock  of  surprise.  Much  as  her  mind  had 
speculated  upon  the  latent  possibilities  of  the  new 
relationship,  she  had  not  dreamed  of  this.  She  could 
not  answer  instantly,  as  the  use  of  the  'phone  re- 
quired, but  had  been  obliged,  in  her  perturbation  and 
bewilderment,  to  agree  to  try  to  do  her  patron's 
bidding  and  'phone  if  she  found  she  could  come. 

She  returned  to  her  sewing — in  vain.  She  could 
120 


Temptation 

not  sew  in  her  mental  agitation.  She  confessed  this 
agitation  readily.  It  had  all  been  lying  half  aroused 
since  the  day  Adam's  wife  had  appeared.  With  a 
sense  combined  of  divination,  premonition,  and  in- 
tuition, she  had  felt  the  Fates  at  work.  She  had  felt 
the  drawing,  close  and  tense,  of  invisible  cords  be- 
tween herself  and  Adam  Croswell.  She  had  tried  to 
avoid  him ;  tried  to  deny  herself  all  idle  curiosity,  all 
natural  impulse  to  seek  him  out,  if  only  to  look  upon 
his  face,  then  fade  again  forever  from  his  ken — but 
all  these  days  she  had  felt  how  vain  was  her  struggle 
with  herself. 

She  had  come  upon  a  vital  fact,  through  these 
contacts  with  the  wife:  Mae  Croswell  did  not  love 
her  mate  as  a  man  had  a  right  to  be  loved.  She  did 
not  love  as  she — she,  Beatrice  Graham — had  always 
had  it  in  her  heart  to  love.  If  sophistry  told  her 
that  sympathy  was  all  she  felt  for  Adam  now — if 
specious  argument  urged  her  to  believe  she  had  all 
the  right  in  the  world  to  render  him  this  sympathy, 
it  was  hardly  more  than  natural  she  listened  and 
gave  a  partial  consent. 

Nevertheless,  she  had  no  intention  in  the  world  of 
seeking  the  fateful  meeting  towards  which  her  nature 
yearned.  She  did  not,  however,  decide  to  refuse  this 
request  of  Adam's  wife.  If  she  felt  that  the  sternest 
duty  commanded  such  a  course,  she  also  permitted 
arguments  to  rise  on  the  fever  of  her  blood. 

She  was  certain  she  could  go,  paint  quietly  in 
Mae's  boudoir,  and  then  escape  and  see  no  sign  of 

121 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

Adam.  Men  were  at  work  at  three  o'clock,  and  rarely 
at  home  by  six.  There  was  hardly  a  chance  in  a 
thousand  of  encountering  Adam  there. 

She  wished  to  see  his  home.  To  that  much  curiosity 
she  readily  confessed.  How  had  the  promise  of  his 
earlier  taste  in  things  artistic  and  appropriate  been 
fulfilled?  What  was  it  like  where  he  lived?  Per- 
haps, she  argued  to  herself,  it  might  be  the  wisest 
thing  in  the  world,  after  all,  to  see  his  home,  or  even 
himself,  and  so  perchance,  be  disillusionized,  once 
and  forever,  by  his  change.  He  must  have  changed. 
She  was  altered  herself.  The  love  that  had  been 
might  alter  to-day,  and  become  a  saving  indifference 
or  even  something  colder. 

The  portrait  was  a  secret.  She  remembered  that. 
Adam  knew  nothing  of  its  birth.  It  was  certain  his 
wife  felt  safe  to  have  her  come — felt  secure  in  the 
secret,  therefore  confident  of  Adam's  absence  from 
the  house.  Not  a  single  substantial  reason  was  pre- 
sented for  denying  Mrs.  Croswell's  wish.  It  was  her 
wish,  and  that  was  an  element  not  to  be  ignored. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  impulse  to  go  was  irre- 
sistible. As  one  who  fights  with  no  hope  of  success, 
Beatrice  struggled — sufficiently  long  to  satisfy  the 
scruples  of  her  mind.  All  the  while,  however,  she 
was  subconsciously  aware  she  would  gratify  her  im- 
pulse in  the  end.  When  at  last  she  moved,  half 
feverishly,  half  reluctantly,  across  the  room  to  the 
telephone,  removed  the  receiver  from  its  hook,  and 
asked  for  Mae's  private  number  she  was  wholly 

122 


Temptation 

suffused  with  emotion  that  partook  of  ecstasy  and 
fear. 

It  was  Annie,  the  maid,  who  responded  on  the  wire, 
for  Mae  was  still  in  bed.  The  answer  that  came 
from  her  mistress  made  retreat  quite  out  of  the 
question. 

"  Will  you  please  be  prompt,  at  three?  " 
"  At  three,  yes — sharp,"  said  Beatrice,  "  Good-by." 
In  new  and  stirring  excitement  she  hastened  at 
once  to  her  sewing.     The  dainty  bit  of  finery,  on 
which  some  slight  repairs  were  essential,  was  the  one 
particular  thing  she  had  that  she  felt  would  be  fit 
to  wear. 


12S 


CHAPTER  VIII 

NEW  ACQUAINTANCES 

AT  half-past  two  o'clock  in  Adam's  home  Miss 
Abbot  was  waiting  for  Mae.  She  sat  in  the  library, 
quite  alone,  already  a  subject  of  nerves.  For  half 
an  hour  she  had  fussed  about  the  room  while  the 
afternoon  went  by.  And  the  day  was  exceptionally 
fine. 

Miss  Abbot,  ordinarily  languid  to  an  almost  ar- 
tistic degree,  was  a  tall  young  woman  of  the  stylish, 
blonde  variety,  with  eyes  fairly  purple  in  hue.  Her 
beauty  was  striking,  almost  dazzling.  In  combina- 
tion with  her  arts  and  graces  it  bewildered,  perhaps 
even  intoxicated,  the  senses  of  men  on  whom  it  might 
be  turned.  It  was  soulless,  selfish  loveliness,  how- 
ever, and  deficient.  Its  lack  was  a  thing  to  be  felt, 
not  seen,  and  that  only  by  the  most  discerning.  She 
was  fatherless,  and  unsparing  of  her  mother.  On  the 
wreckage  of  what  had  once  been  Abbot's  fortune  it 
was  possible  for  one  to  live,  and  one  to  approximate 
to  luxury.  The  mother  was  chosen  to  live.  Per- 
haps her  adoration  of  her  ease-loving,  self-indulgent, 
imperious,  and  modern  task-master  was  compensation 
sufficient  to  her  needs. 

124 


New  Acquaintances 

Frona,  waxing  more  and  more  impatient,  tossed 
to  the  table  a  book  she  had  superficially  examined, 
and  was  rising  to  go  to  the  'phone  and  ring  for 
Mae,  when  Babe  appeared  at  the  door  and  entered 
the  room,  glad  to  be  home  for  a  rest. 

"Oh,  how  dy  do?"  she  said  good-naturedly, 
plumping  at  once  in  a  chair.  "  Where  are  all  the 
folks?" 

She  more  than  half  expected  Paul,  while  Adam 
himself  had  agreed  to  quit  his  office  sufficiently  early 
to  take  her  out  for  a  walk. 

Frona  came  back  to  the  table  and  stood  there, 
abused  and  bored. 

"  The  folks?  "  she  echoed.  "  I  imagine  the  cook 
is  in  the  kitchen,  eating  bread  and  honey,  and  Adam's 
in  the  counting-house,  counting  out  his  money,  while 
Mae  is  in  her  room,  no  doubt,  magnifying  her  troubles 
and  wasting  all  the  afternoon." 

Babe  came  at  once  to  Mae's  defense.  As  one  of 
the  family,  privileged  to  appraise  her  aunt  to  her 
uncle,  she  resented  outside  criticism,  especially  on 
the  part  of  Frona  Abbot. 

"  I  feel  real  sorry  for  Aunt  Mae,"  she  said. 
"  She  doesn't  think  her  troubles  are  just  thought 
up,  so  they're  nearly  as  bad  as  the  genuine 
article." 

Frona  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  I  shouldn't  mind 
them  in  the  least  if  she'd  only  have  them  after  work- 
ing hours.  But  to  plan  to  go  driving  and  then  act 
like  this  is  positively  ghastly." 

125 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

Babe  was  pulling  off  her  gloves  and  slightly 
frowning. 

"  I'm  sure  she  thinks  she's  doing  the  best  she  can, 
but  she  has  so  much  time  to  think  it  over  in  she 
doesn't  take  time  to  do  anything  else." 

Frona  glanced  at  her  tiny  little  watch. 

"  The  afternoon  is  nearly  gone !  I  think  Mae's 
getting  positively  selfish.  She  knows  how  I  love  to 
drive  in  the  park — and  she  certainly  needs  a  little 
exercise." 

Babe  had  known  nothing  of  the  drive  her  aunt 
had  planned.  Nevertheless,  she  betrayed  no  sign  of 
pique,  as  she  took  off  her  hat  and  held  it  on  her  knee. 

"  Of  course  driving  is  very  pleasant,"  she  said, 
"  but  all  the  same  I  don't  think  it's  exercise  at  all." 

"  I  suppose  out  West  you'd  expect  her  to  chop 
the  wood  and  carry  the  water  from  out  in  the  middle 
of  the  desert." 

"  There  isn't  any  water  in  the  desert,"  said  Babe, 
ingenuously.  "  I  don't  say  I'd  recommend  a  real 
housekeeper's  work  just  yet,  but  Mae  hasn't  got 
strength  enough  to  stir  her  own  coffee.  Uncle  Adam 
has  to  beat  up  her  soft-boiled  eggs,  and  that's  all 
wrong." 

Frona  sat  down,  in  studied  languor. 

"  What  in  the  world  are  the  men  good  for  if  they 
can't  do  a  few  little  thoughtful  things  like  that  ?  " 

Babe's  reply  was  characteristic: 

"  Well,  the  Indians  out  home  don't  do  them  and 
their  squaws  are  healthy,  you  bet ! " 

126 


New  Acquaintances 

Frona  all  but  collapsed.    "  Squaws !    Good  Lord !  " 

"  Some  of  them  have  more  fun  than  Aunt  Mae," 
said  Babe,  in  defense  of  her  position.  "  Mae's  tired 
if  she  laughs.  I  think  all  she  needs  is  genuine  ex- 
ercise and  a  family  of  children." 

A  bell-sound  came  from  afar.  Frona  rose  im- 
patiently. 

"  Oh,  you're  the  most  impossible  person  I  ever  met 
in  my  life !  Now,  there's  someone  coming — doubtless 
company  for  Mae !  " 

But  the  company  was  Paul. 

He  came  in,  leading  a  child — little  Emily  Bronson 
— and  the  picture  they  made  was  of  two  degrees  of 
youth  and  irresponsibility. 

Paul  was  a  lovable,  rainbow-strewing  boy,  too 
elusive  for  serious  cares  to  capture.  Emily,  over- 
gifted  with  activity,  the  curiosity  of  her  sex  and 
hunger  for  happenings,  was  no  less  lovable,  and 
equally  careless  of  cares.  Both  paused  genially  in 
the  doorway,  to  pay  for  admission  with  a  smile. 

Babe  was  the  first  to  give  them  greeting. 

"Oh,  how  dy  do?"  she  said  to  Paul.  "Why, 
hello,  Emily  dear !  " 

Emily  dropped  her  escort's  hand  and  both  came 
forward  at  once. 

"  Say,"  said  Paul,  to  both  his  auditors,  while  he 
took  Babe's  proffered  hand,  "  didn't  I  say  this  was 
my  lucky  day?  A  man  stepped  on  my  foot,  in  the 
car,  and  I  thought  of  a  brand-new  invention.  It's 
a  patent,  invisible  toe-protector!  Bet  it  will  make 

127 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

a  fortune !  There  must  be  fully  ten  million  people  a 
year  whose  feet  are  crying  for  protection.  Hereto- 
fore they've  had  to  cry  unheard.  If  we  only  make 
a  profit  of  fifteen  cents  on  each — but  excuse  me  for 
talking  shop.  How  are  you,  anyway?  I  mean 
everybody,  of  course.  I  really  came  up  to — to — and 
here  you  are — both  of  you  at  once." 

Frona  shrugged  her  shoulders  for  his  hopeless- 
ness. Emily,  meantime,  having  hastened  to  a  chair 
by  the  mantel,  was  climbing  up  to  reach  a  vase  that 
attracted  her  eye  by  its  color. 

Babe,  in  her  honesty,  came  to  the  issue  promptly. 

"But  which  one  of  us  did  you  come  to  see? — 
because  I  can  go  if  I'm  a  crowd." 

Emily,  with  the  vase  in  hand,  came  swiftly  back 
to  Paul. 

"  Boy,"  she  said,  "  nice  bottle." 

"  That  child !  "  said  Frona,  disgustedly. 

"  Why,  don't  you  see,  I  came "  started  Paul, 

then  abruptly  addressed  the  child.  "  Mustn't  take 
things  down,  Emily.  We  came  to  see  Uncle  Adam." 

He  took  the  vase  and  returned  it  to  its  stand. 

Babe  knelt  down  by  Emily  and  folded  the  child 
in  her  arms. 

"  Didn't  you  come  to  see  me,  too?  "  she  asked,  and 
she  kissed  the  youngster  fondly. 

Emily  looked  all  about  and  squirmed  away.  u  Nice 
fings,"  she  said,  for  many  there  were  that  attracted 
her  eyes  and  hands. 

"  As  I  was  saying,"  Paul  resumed,  "  I  really  came 
128 


New  Acquaintances 

to  see  if  Adam  might  not  like  to  finance  my  patent 
protector.  You  can  see " 

"  Oh,  spare  us,  Paul,  if  you  please,"  interrupted 
Frona,  languidly.  "  If  Mae  doesn't  come  in  two  more 
minutes,  you  can  take  me  out  and  finance  a  good  hot 
chocolate." 

Babe  paused  in  her  care  of  Emily  to  glance  in 
Paul's  direction.  Emily  made  for  the  telephone 
standing  on  the  desk,  lifted  it  down  and  got  as  far 
towards  Paul  as  the  wire  would  permit,  when  she 
and  the  instrument  went  down  in  a  heap  on  the 
floor. 

"  Good  heavens,  that  child  will  drive  me  crazy ! " 
said  Frona,  impatiently.  She  went  at  once  to  the 
button  near  the  door  and  rung  the  bell  for  the  maid. 

It  was  Babe  who  rescued  the  'phone.  "  I  wouldn't 
do  that,  dear,"  she  said.  "  You  wouldn't  want  to 
break  poor  Uncle's  things." 

Paul,  who  had  come  for  a  chat  with  Babe,  was 
faintly  distressed  by  Frona's  presence.  He  dared 
not  avow  the  simple  truth — he  could  not,  in  fact,  com- 
bat the  spell  that  Frona's  beauty  had  always  cast 
upon  him. 

"  Adam  is  sure  to  be  here  presently,"  he  said, 
consulting  his  watch.  "  It's  nearly  three  o'clock." 

"  It's  nearly  what  ?  "  demanded  Frona,  warmly. 
"Well,  if  this  isn't  just  too  provoking!"  She 
turned  about  as  Annie  appeared  at  the  door.  "  Oh, 
Annie,  do  take  this  terrible  child  and  put  her  some- 
where till  Mr.  Croswell  comes.  And  please  tell  Mae 

129 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

I'd  like  to  know  if  she  means  to  go  out  to-day  or 
not." 

"  Oh,  Miss,  she  can't  go  now,  and  she  wanted  to 
know  if  you  wouldn't  kindly  excuse  her  from  the 
drive,"  said  Annie,  moving  swiftly  down  upon  the 
child,  who  in  turn  was  descending  on  more  of  the 
bric-a-brac.  "  She's  expecting  to  sit  for  her  picture 
— her  miniature,  I  believe — and  the  artist  may  come 
at  any  minute." 

"  Aunt  Mae?  "  said  Babe.  "  Why,  I  never  heard 
of  that!" 

Annie  had  captured  Emily  and  now  departed 
forthwith. 

Frona  was  disgusted. 

"  Oh,  this  is  too  much — it's  perfectly  ridiculous ! 
I  never  heard  of  anything  more  deliberately  thought- 
less than  to  keep  me  waiting  here  like  this  and  then 
send  out  such  a  message !  I  won't  remain  another 
minute !  Paul,  are  you  ready  to  go  ?  " 

Paul  rubbed  at  his  jaw  in  indecision  that  was  not 
unmingled  with  chagrin. 

"  Say,  I've  got  a  scheme ! "  he  suddenly  cried,  as 
an  inspiration  flared  upon  his  brain.  "  Let's  all  go 
down  to  the  Grotto  for  tea  and  that  bully  Hungarian 
music.  Miss  Babe — Miss  Nickerson — will  you  go?  " 

Babe  hesitated  only  for  a  second,  till  she  fancied 
she  saw,  on  Frona's  face,  a  shadow  of  annoyance. 

"  Why,  certainly,"  she  said.  "  I'm  awfully  fond 
of  music." 

She  crossed  to  the  couch,  where  she  had  tossed 
180 


New  Acquaintances 

w 

her  hat,  and  was  pinning  it  once  more  in  place  when 
the  outside  bell  was  rung  again  and  Beatrice  Gra- 
ham was  admitted. 

Pale  and  flushed  alternately,  alert,  dignified,  and 
regal  as  always,  despite  the  burdeff  of  her  paint-box 
in  her  hand,  she  paused  in  the  door  to  which  she  had 
been  ushered  by  the  maid  and  looked  at  the  three 
young  occupants  of  the  room  in  slight  embarrass- 
ment. 

"  Please  sit  down  and  wait  a  few  minutes,"  Annie 
requested,  disappearing. 

Beatrice  came  a  little  into  the  room,  halting  again, 
uncertainly. 

Babe  liked  her,  instantly,  and  met  her  with  a 
natural  sense  of  hospitality. 

"  How  do  you  do?  "  she  said,  advancing  with  her 
hand  extended.  "  You  must  be  the  artist,  aren't 
you?  I'm  Aunt  Mae's  niece,  Babe  Nickerson.  We 
haven't  heard  your  name.  We  only  just  heard  you 
were  coming." 

"  Mrs.  Graham,"  said  Beatrice,  smiling  faintly ; 
and  some  way  the  girlish,  honest  pressure  of  Babe's 
befriending  hand  aroused  a  soft  pleasure  in  her 
heart. 

Babe  believed  in  introductions. 

"  This  is  Miss  Abbot,  Mrs.  Graham,"  she  added, 
turning  to  Frona,  "  and  Mr.  Price." 

Frona  nodded  from  her  place  beside  the  table. 
Paul  was  more  like  Babe. 

"  You  must  be  fearfully  clever  to  paint  Mac — 
131 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

Mrs.  Croswell,"  he  laughed.  "  I  couldn't  paint  a 
fence." 

Babe  gave  one  last  tug  of  adjustment  at  her  hat. 

"I  hope  you'll  excuse  us;  we  were  just  starting 
off,"  she  said  apologetically.  "  Just  make  yourself 
at  home.  Annie  will  tell  Aunt  Mae  you  have  come." 

"  Thank  you.  Please  don't  let  me  detain  you," 
Beatrice  answered,  and  again  that  faint,  sweet  smile 
appeared,  to  charm  Babe's  whole  responsive  nature. 

"  Good-by,"  she  said.  "  I  hope  we'll  meet  again." 
Once  more  she  offered  her  hand. 

The  other  adieus  were  more  formal — and  Beatrice 
was  left  there  alone. 


]*f 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  WAY  OF  A  WIFE 

FOR  a  time,  as  she  stood  uncertainly  glancing 
about  the  room,  Beatrice  felt  her  heart  beating  in  a 
flutter.  Her  excitement,  instead  of  subsiding  for 
her  efforts  to  be  calm,  was  rising  momentarily  to  a 
state  of  strained  intensity. 

Like  one  who  gropes  uncertainly,  on  a  path  un- 
familiar to  the  feet,  she  had  moved  in  this  excursion 
towards  fates  and  things  unknown.  A  feeling  of  risk 
was  upon  her,  more  frightening  because  it  was  vague. 
She  could  not  have  named  a  concrete  thing  of  which 
she  felt  alarmed.  The  risk  was  to  something  in- 
tangible, she  dared  not  question  what.  There  was 
nothing  physical,  nothing  psychical  to  fear.  She 
had  something  to  lose — perhaps  her  cherished  love 
for  the  man  once  hers  by  right.  Yet  it  might 
prove  almost  a  mercy  to  be  robbed  forever  of 
that. 

Her  tumult  somewhat  subsided  as  she  waited  here 
alone.  There  was  little  to  note  in  such  a  room  that 
would  characterize  a  man.  The  furnishings  and  ap- 
pointments were  rich,  inconspicuous,  tasteful.  The 
subtle  delight  she  had  felt  to  underlie  her  thoughts 

133 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

while  conjuring  up  in  anticipation  the  thrill  she 
should  feel  to  find  herself  an  actual  visitor  in  his  house 
was  somewhat  dimmed.  It  was  not  the  man's  serv- 
ants, his  wife,  or  his  house  that  she  really  wished  to 
see;  it  was  the  man. 

She  did  not  even  now  confess  to  this,  though  the 
thought  stirred  deeply  in  her  mind.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  she  almost  feared  that  Adam  might  appear.  A 
certain  conviction  that  a  meeting  between  them  was 
inevitable  had  haunted  her  long  and  persistently. 
Nevertheless,  she  could  not  be  sure  she  could  welcome 
the  vital  event.  To  meet  him  and  lose  something 
precious  to  her  heart  would  be  wellnigh  insupportable. 
To  meet  him  and  find  that  she  loved  him  still  might 
prove  a  greater  disaster. 

The  impulse  to  fly  and  the  impulse  to  stay  as- 
saulted her  being  together.  It  was  calm  in  his  home 
— no  apparent  dangers  threatened.  Nevertheless,  a 
certain  premonitory  sense  seemed  faintly  repeating 
its  warning. 

The  maid  returned  unexpectedly.  Beatrice  started 
at  her  voice. 

"  If  you  please,  Madam,  Mrs.  Croswell  asks  if  you 
will  not  sit  down  and  wait  a  few  minutes.  She  will 
come  as  soon  as  possible." 

*'  Certainly,"  said  Beatrice.  With  automatic  obedi- 
ence she  went  to  an  easy-chair  drawn  up  before  the 
cabinets  of  books,  by  a  small  reading-stand  in  the  cor- 
ner, and  took  up  a  late  magazine. 

Her  paint-box  she  placed  upon  the  floor.  She  had 
134, 


The  Way  of  a  Wife 

hardly  more  than  calmed  herself  by  glancing  through 
the  illustrated  pages  when  a  sound  of  footsteps,  out 
in  the  hall,  came  dully  to  her  senses.  She  heard 
someone  halt  for  a  second  at  the  door,  and  then  pass 
along  to  farther  rooms.  She  felt  it  was  one  of  the 
servants. 

It  was  Adam.  He  had  come  to  fulfill  the  promise, 
made  to  Babe,  to  take  her  out  for  a  lark.  He  had 
glanced  for  a  moment  into  the  room,  failed  to  discern 
the  visitor,  seated  far  back  in  the  corner,  and  pro- 
ceeded at  once  to  Mae's  boudoir. 

He  found  his  wife  fully  dressed  at  last  and  the 
maid  engaged  with  her  hair. 

"  Well,  well,"  he  said,  as  he  gave  her  a  kiss  and 
patted  her  gently  on  the  shoulder,  "  how  fine  the  little 
woman  looks  this  afternoon!  By  George,  if  you've 
changed  your  mind,  my  dear,  and  will  go  along  to 
the  show " 

"  Oh,  Adam,  please  don't  be  absurd,"  she  inter- 
rupted. "  Don't  you  realize  I  just  got  up  an  hour 
ago?  I  told  you  I  wasn't  feeling  well,  and  Doctor 
Kinsey  positively  orders  all  the  rest  I  can  possibly 
get." 

Adam  sat  down.  The  boyish  light  that  had  come 
to  his  eyes  quickly  faded  away. 

"  Doctor  Kinsey  ?  "  he  repeated.  "  Doctor  Kin- 
sey? You  haven't  dismissed  Doctor  Ward?  " 

Mae's  voice  was  ready  to  break. 

"  Now,  please,  don't  scold  this  afternoon,  when  I'm 
just  barely  out  of  my  bed.  I  couldn't  bear  that 

185 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

young  man  to  tell  me  again  that  all  I  need  is  exer- 
cise, when  I'm  all  run  down  from  overwork  about  the 
house." 

Adam  did  not  smile.  The  joke  was  ironical  and 
old. 

"  Did  you  tell  the  new  one — this  Doctor  Kinsey — 
the  nature  of  your  trouble?  " 

"  He  saw  at  once  that  I  was  on  the  verge  of  nerv- 
ous prostration." 

Adam  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

"  He's  older  than  Doctor  Ward,  I  imagine." 

"  Certainly  he's  older — and  wiser,"  said  his  wife. 
"  But  I  hope  you  didn't  come  home  to  talk  about 
that.  I've  collected  a  few  of  my  small  accounts  that 
ought  to  be  settled,  I  think,  before  I  go  on  Monday." 

She  asked  for  the  bills,  which  Annie  produced  from 
a  drawer. 

Adam  had  caught  at  something  else. 

"  Go  where  ?  "  he  inquired.  "  Where  were  you 
thinking  of  going?  " 

"  Probably  to  Florida,  Palm  Beach,  or  Miami," 
Mae  replied,  as  she  placed  the  accounts  in  his  hand. 
"  Doctor  Kinsey  is  sure  that  delay  at  this  time 
might  be  very  serious  indeed." 

Adam  glanced  at  the  bills  as  he  asked  another  ques- 
tion. 

"  You're  planning  to  take  Babe  along?  " 

"  Why,  Adam,  you  know  I  couldn't  think  of  such  a 
folly,"  Mae  declared.  "  She  wears  on  my  nerves 
unbearably." 

136 


The  Way  of  a  Wife 

Adam  was  silent  for  a  moment,  subconsciously 
glad  that  Babe  at  least  would  remain. 

"  Good  Lord !  "  he  ejaculated  mildly,  as  he  thumbed 
over  bill  after  bill,  "  how  long  have  these  accounts 
been  running?  " 

"  Only  two  or  three  months.     Now,  Adam — 

"  But,  my  dear  girl,"  he  interrupted,  "  I  haven't 
got  barrels  of  money." 

She  was  ready  to  burst  into  tears.  Annie  dis- 
creetly disappeared. 

"  Oh,  if  you're  going  to  scold  I  shall  just  wish  I 
were  dead.  I'm  in  no  condition  now  to  make  my 
trip." 

Adam  stirred  on  his  chair,  but  restrained  his  grow- 
ing impatience. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  scold,  and  you  know  it,"  he  an- 
swered quietly.  "  I  thought  you  had  made  up  your 
mind  to  remain  at  home,  for  once.  Now  comes  this 
new  pilgarlic  and  orders  you  off  again  to  Florida. 
On  what  excuse?  " 

"  He's  not  a  new  pilgarlic,  and  I  can't  see  the  jus- 
tice or  reason  for  calling  a  gentleman  names,"  Mae 
objected.  "  He  is  a  gentleman  and  my  doctor — try- 
ing to  make  me  a  well  and  happy  companion  for  you. 
He  says  I  need  an  absolute  rest,  from  both  my  house 
— and  my  husband.  There,  I  didn't  mean  to  say  it, 
but  you  brought  it  on  yourself." 

Adam  arose,  the  bills  in  hand,  and  paced  the  length 
of  the  room. 

"  Rest  from  your  husband !  "  he  repeated.  "  What 
1S7 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

about  the  rest  you've  had  from  your  husband  for  con- 
siderably over  a  year?  " 

"  But  we're  both  in  the  same  house,"  she  argued, 
"  and  that  couldn't  mean  rest  fiom  all  the  irrita- 
tions." 

"  Irritations ! " 

Her  voice  assumed  a  greater  tearfulness. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  your  feelings.  I  never  do, 
but  I'm  not  a  well  woman  in  the  least."  She  dropped 
her  face  in  her  hands  and  cried,  despite  apparent  ef- 
forts to  control  her  emotions. 

"  There,  there,  don't  worry,"  he  said,  as  he  had  a 
thousand  times.  "  Don't  let  go.  It's  all  right. 
We've  got  to  do  the  best  we  can.  Only  I  sometimes 
wonder  if  the  women  who  live  normal  lives  and  have 
their  children " 

"  There  you  go !  "  she  interrupted,  with  unexpected 
emphasis  for  one  so  weak.  "  You  know  you  mustn't 
talk  to  me  like  this.  You  know  what  a  danger  it 
would  be  to  my  life,  in  my  condition,  to  permit  such 
a  dreadful  mistake ! "  She  rose  from  her  chair 
and  supported  herself  by  its  back.  "  You've 
got  me  so  wrought  up  I'll  have  to  go  back  to  my 
bed." 

Adam  crossed  to  her  promptly  and  placed  his  arm 
about  her  waist. 

"  Oh,  come,  dear,  let's  talk  this  over  quietly," 
he  said.  "  You  know  what  I'd  do  to  make  you 
well." 

"  I  can't,"  she  said.  "  I  mustn't.  The  doctor  say* 
138 


The   Way  of  a   Wife 

I  mustn't  get  excited.  I  can't  even  sit  for  my  pic- 
ture, after  all.  There,  I  meant  to  keep  it  a  secret 
and  give  you  a  pretty  surprise,  but  even  that  little 
is  denied  me.  You  will  have  to  ask  Mrs.  Graham  to 
excuse  me." 

"  Mrs.  Graham  ?  "  he  queried.  "  I  don't  know 
any  Mrs.  Graham,  or  what  you  mean,  in  the 
least." 

"  She's  an  artist.  She  paints  beautiful  minia- 
tures, and  I'm  having  her  paint  me  for  you,"  Mae 
explained,  as  she  sank  upon  her  couch.  "  She  is 
waiting  in  the  library  now.  But  you'll  have  to 
ask  her  to  let  it  go  to-day.  I  shall  have  to 
say  good-night,  dear,  and  return  at  once  to 
bed." 

"  But,  Mae,"  he  protested  mildly,  "  good-night  at 
half-past  three?  " 

She  sank  further  back  and  closed  her  eyes. 

"  I'm  too  exhausted  to  see  anyone  but  Annie.  I'm 
very  sorry,  dear." 

He  stood  there  for  a  moment  irresolute,  struggling, 
as  best  he  might,  with  increasing  revulsion  of  affec- 
tion. He  thought,  perhaps,  he  might  be  able  still  to 
divert  her  thoughts  from  herself. 

"  This  artist,"  he  said.  "  I  suppose  she's  some- 
thing unusual — as  to  prices  and  workmanship  and 
all  the  rest?" 

"  I  haven't  asked  her  price,"  said  Mae.  "  If 
you're  going  to  get  started  on  the  money  question 
again  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do.  I  wish  you'd 

IS9 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

just  kiss  me  good-night  and  not  let  me  bother  you 
another  bit  to-day." 

Adam  crushed  all  the  bills  in  his  fist  and  thrust 
them  into  his  pocket.  The  same  old  surrender  was 
inevitable. 

"  Oh  well — all  right,"  he  acquiesced,  and  kissed 
her  on  the  cheek.  "  I'll  see  Mrs.  Graham  at  once." 


140 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    SMOLDERING    SPARK 

BEATRICE,  stirred  by  every  vague  uneasiness  to 
which  her  steady  nerves  were  susceptible,  had  found 
her  chair  and  the  magazine  a  fret.  She  had  dropped 
the  one  and  arisen  from  the  other,  time  after  time, 
only  to  come  to  harbor  once  again  in  an  effort  to 
calm  her  soul. 

The  place,  the  very  atmosphere  that  Adam  was 
constantly  breathing,  had  begun  to  work  some  subtle 
spell  that  alarmed  as  well  as  allured  her.  Something 
of  portent  was  present  in  the  air.  She  questioned  the 
wisdom  of  her  coming.  She  had  not  had  the  right, 
she  told  herself,  to  submit  to  this  trial  of  her  heart. 
The  contrast  between  the  luxury  and  ease  of  Mrs. 
Croswell's  existence  and  the  struggle  and  pinch  of  her 
own  had  been  sufficiently  vivid  before,  after  one  brief 
interview  with  Mae.  To  stir  a  new,  vain  discontent 
within  herself  had  been  far  from  the  course  of 
wisdom. 

She  was  once  more  moving  in  restlessness  about  the 
room  when  Adam  entered.  He  came  with  hardly  a 
sound.  Her  back  was  towards  the  curtained  door 
as  he  cleared  his  voice  to  speak. 

141 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 
"  Oh,  Mrs.  Graham,"  he  started,  "  Mrs.  Croswell 


begs— 

She  turned,  and  her  face  was  white  and  startled. 

For  a  second  the  man  was  dumb — and  staring. 

"Beatrice!"  he  said.  "Why — Beatrice!  Bea- 
trice ! — how  in  the  world " 

She  tried  to  smile,  to  grasp  at  a  mastery  of  self  and 
situation,  while  almost  ready  to  sink  upon  the  floor, 
from  the  abruptness  of  the  climax. 

"I'm  Mrs.  Graham,"  she  said.  "You  didn't 
know?" 

He  had  not  apparently  heard  her  question.  He 
came  towards  her  slowly,  and  she  clutched  at  the  back 
of  a  chair. 

"  Why,  where  in  the  world  have  you  come  from  ?  " 
he  said,  his  voice,  face,  and  being  intense.  "  I've  been 
thinking  of  you  all  day.  Beatrice!  .  .  .  It's 
really  you ! " 

She  continued  pale,  for  her  name  on  his  lips  had 
slain  a  half-hearted  hope.  She  could  never  cease  to 
love  him,  after  all:  there  was  no  disillusion  possible, 
since  he  filled  all  the  measure  of  her  dream.  But  she 
could  act.  And  therefore  she  smiled,  in  an  offhand 
manner  that  masked  every  inch  of  her  heart. 

"  It  is  I — just  a  commonplace  I,"  she  said.  "  It 
is  some  time  since  we've  met." 

He  still  stared  fixedly.  He  was  filling  his  eyes  and 
his  soul  with  the  vision  of  her  smile,  but  he  did  not 
know  it  then. 

"  Good  heavens !  "  he  said.  "  I  might  have  known 
142 


The  Smoldering  Spark 

what  it  meant  to  have  you  so  present  in  my  thoughts ! 
It's  years — it's  years  since  that  sickening — I  found 
an  old  tintype  of  you  yesterday.  You  haven't 
changed.  You're  wondrously  the  same.  .  .  .  Well, 
well,  Beatrice ! "  He  was  fighting  down  emotions 
— his  soul's  half-starving  impulses,  born  to  new 
life  at  a  flash.  He  knew  he  must  hasten  to  the  safety 
of  the  commonplace.  "  I  didn't  even  know  the  name. 
I  had  thought  of  it  always  as  Percy." 

"  Percy  Graham,"  she  said.  "  You  must  have 
heard — and  forgot." 

"  No,  I  never  forgot  the  things  that — No,  I  never 
knew  his  name,  I'm  very  certain.  You're  painting, 
then?  And  how  is  Mr.  Graham?"  These  were  not 
the  things  he  wished  to  say,  but  he  felt  the  need  for 
time. 

She  flushed  the  merest  trifle.  Her  color  was  re- 
turning to  her  cheeks  and,  like  her  beauty  and  her 
old  familiar  charm,  grew  upon  him  rapidly. 

She  said,  "  Of  course,  I  could  hardly  expect  that 
you  would  hear  of  the  death  of  Mr.  Graham." 

"  You're  a  widow?  "  he  said.     "  He's  dead?  " 

Had  she  said  to  his  love,  "  I'm  free — and  home," 
his  nature  could  scarcely  have  leaped  more  swiftly, 
more  joyously,  in  response  to  unreasoning  laws  that 
know  no  cold  conventions. 

"  I'm  sorry  if  you've  had  sorrows,  Beatrice,"  he 
added.  "  But  I'm  glad  to  see  you  back  again — and 
to  see  you  looking  so  well !  " 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said.  "  I'm  not  unhappy  now." 
143 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

"  Oh,  it's  wonderful ! "  he  burst  forth  boyishly. 
"  It's  wonderful,  Beatrice,  to  find  you  again — like 
this !  I  can't  be  sorry  for  Graham,  even  dead,  after 
all  he  did  to — us.  Beatrice,  that  was  a  horrible 
thing — an  infamy  such " 

She  suddenly  feared — not  only  for  herself,  but  for 
Adam,  thus  so  candid. 

"  It's  odd  that  I  should  come  to  paint  Mrs.  Cros- 
well's  miniature,"  she  interrupted  quietly.  "  How  is 
your  wife  to-day  ?  " 

It  served  to  bring  him  back,  abruptly,  face  to  face 
with  present  facts. 

"  Oh,  she's  not  at  all  well,"  he  answered,  in  full 
control  at  once  of  emotions  that  surged  in  his  breast. 
"  Sit  down,  sit  down,  Beatrice,  and  let  me  get  a  good, 
square  look  at  you  again." 

Beatrice  accepted  a  chair,  but  insisted  still  upon 
the  safer  topic.  "  What  seems  to  be  Mrs.  Cros- 
well's  ailment  ?  " 

"  It's  a  complication,  so  the  doctors  say,  and  a  trifle 
hard  to  define." 

"  You  haven't  any  family  ?  "  She  knew  that  Mae 
was  childless,  but  asked  the  question  for  the  sake  of 
making  conversation. 

"  Nothing  but  a  dog,"  said  Adam,  "  and  he  may 
have  gone  out  walking." 

She  glanced  about.  Her  old  self-poise  and  ease  of 
manner  were  returning. 

"  Your  home  is  beautiful.  You  must  be  very 
happy." 

144 


The  Smoldering  Spark 

He  was  looking  at  her  steadily.  A  thousand  old, 
heart-tied  regrets  were  haunting  his  being  like  ghosts. 
Yet  he  answered  half  in  jest: 

"  I  haven't  any  monopoly  of  all  the  joy  in  the 
world." 

She  could  not  altogether  avoid  the  subject,  though 
it  verged  upon  danger  to  them  both. 

"  But  your  life  has  been  a  great  success." 

He  clenched  his  hands  and  looked  at  her  intently. 

"  It  might  have  been  greater." 

She  merely  answered,  "  Oh !  " 

He  arose  from  his  chair  impatiently,  once  more  a 
prey  to  the  outrages  done  to  his  heart. 

"  Beatrice,"  he  said,  "  that  was  an  unforgivable — 
a  ruining  infamy  that  Chauncey  and  Graham  com- 
mitted on  you  and  me !  " 

"  Why  talk  of  it  now?  "  she  asked  him  with  a  smile. 
"  It  did  not  pay  either  in  the  end." 

"  He  couldn't  have  made  you  happy ! "  Adam  in- 
sisted vehemently.  "  A  man  like  that  would  make 
life  hell  on  earth.  Beatrice,  tell  me,  were  you 
happy?" 

Wild  tears  sprang  hotly  to  her  eyes — the  first  she 
had  shed  in  years.  She  rose  and  turned  her  face 
away. 

"  Adam,  I  beg  of  you,"  she  said.  "  What  good 
could  my  answer  exert — for  anyone  to-day?  " 

"  Oh,  but  the  whole  thing — our  lives  could  have 
been  so  much  more — Beatrice!  he  knew  how  much  it 
meant  to " 

145 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

Beatrice  glanced  at  him  with  startled  eyes. 

"  Adam ! " 

"Oh,  I  know!"  he  said.     "But  recently  I  have 

thought  so  much When  I  found  it  out,  it  all 

came  back,  everything — everything!  We  had  never 
done  anything  to  change  the  way  we  felt.  We  have 
never  done  anything  since !  " 

It  was  a  frank,  illogical  declaration.  He  took  no 
account  of  his  starving  nature — what  might  have 
been,  had  Mae  been  different.  It  all  seemed  the  same 
young  love  he  had  known  in  the  sweetest,  most  mirac- 
ulous days  of  his  lif e. 

Beatrice,  swept  no  less  tremendously  outward  than 
he  by  the  tide  of  their  undying  love,  still  had  the 
vision  and  caution  to  clutch  at  a  saving  straw. 

Yet  all  she  could  say  in  reply  to  him  then  was  an- 
other admonishing,  "  Adam  !  " 

"  You  know  it,  you  know  it,  Beatrice ! "  he  added. 

Her  control  was  once  more  in  need  of  support. 
She  turned  the  pages  of  a  magazine  upon  the  table. 

"  We  were  speaking  about  your  wife.  Does  she 
know  that  you  and  I  were  once — acquainted?  " 

"Certainly  not." 

The  mention  of  Mae  served  once  again  to  dampen 
the  heat  of  his  ardor. 

"  But  now,  of  course,  you'll  tell  her?  " 

"  I  don't  see  why  I  should."  He  was  slightly  flush- 
ing, yet  steadily  meeting  her  gaze.  "  What  pur- 
pose would  it  serve?  It  could  hardly  make  anyone 
happier." 

146 


The  Smoldering  Spark 

She  turned  away  to  look  about  the  room. 

"  It  will  be  rather  disconcerting,  my  painting  her 
picture,  after  this." 

"  Don't  worry,"  he  said.  "  You  can  put  it  away 
for  a  while." 

She  glanced  at  him  quickly. 

"  She  has  already  decided  not  to  continue  the 
sittings  ?  " 

"  It  isn't  that,"  he  answered,  "  but  she  has  decided 
to  continue  in  bed  to-day  and  retreat  to  Florida  just 
as  soon  as  her  maid  can  make  her  ready." 

Beatrice  beheld  the  vanishment  of  funds  that  she 
very  much  required. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  that  is  rather  disappointing — I 
mean  to  her — to  you." 

He  read  her  thought  a  little. 

"  Does  it  disappoint  you,  Beatrice?  " 

"  Why,  I  shall  have  other  things  to  do,"  she  an- 
swered bravely.  "  How  long  shall  she  be  gone?  " 

"  At  least  a  month." 

"  And  what  becomes  of  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I'll  plug  along  as  usual,  earning  the  money 
to  pay  the  bills,"  he  answered  with  the  faintest  possi- 
ble irony  of  accent.  "  I'm  not  accustomed  to  much 
of  her  society." 

Beatrice  put  down  her  magazine. 

"  I  shall  have  to  be  going." 

"  Not  yet,"  he  said ;  "  not  yet.  Sit  down — just 
for  a  little  chat.  You've  rented  a  studio  ?  " 

She  gave  him  the  studio  address.  He  jotted  it 
147 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

down  on  an  envelope — and  found  the  old  tintype  in 
his  pocket. 

"  Oh,  here's  your  picture,  now,"  he  said.  "  You'll 
have  to  look  at  this."  He  tore  away  its  wrappings 
and  placed  it  in  her  hand. 

They  stood  there,  side  by  side,  as  she  held  it  before 
her  eyes. 

Beatrice  laughed.  "  Didn't  I  look  real  funny  in 
that  old  hat?" 

"  You  looked  adorable,"  he  answered,  his  being 
suffused  with  warmth.  "  I  loved  it,  Beatrice." 

Her  heart  was  beating  tumultuously,  with  a 
frightening  intensity  of  joy.  But  she  answered 
lightly: 

"  What  would  Mrs.  Croswell  say  if  she  heard  such 
silly  talk  as  that?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Adam,  recklessly.  "  I'm 
worn  out  guessing  what  she'll  say  to  me  next." 

A  phase  of  woman's  wisdom  came  to  give  Beatrice 
aid. 

"  Don't  you  think  you  ought  to  reach  a  better 
understanding — you  and  Mrs.  Croswell?  " 

Adam  laughed  unmirthfully. 

"  The  one  we've  got  at  present  seems  to  be  fashion- 
able, here  in  New  York.  I  make  the  money  and 
she  spends  it.  I  do  the  work  and  she  does  the 
rest." 

"  Oh,  I  haven't  any  patience  with  a  lot  of  you 
men ! "  she  answered.  "  You  don't  know  how  to 
handle  your  women." 

148 


The  Smoldering  Spark 

He  met  her  readily :  "  Will  you  teach  me,  Bea- 
trice? " 

"  Adam ! "  she  said.  "  I'm  sure  you're  forgetting 
what  we  are !  " 

He  did  not  flinch.  He  met  her  gaze  steadily, 
with  a  certain  reckless  courage  in  his  eyes.  He  was 
starving  for  love,  and  here  was  his  heart's  own  ban- 
quet, once  rudely  snatched  away. 

"  I'm  remembering  what  we  were,  Beatrice,"  he 
answered — "  before  Graham  played  his  infamous 
trick.  For  a  long  time  now  I've  been  going  back 
to  that — living  the  past  all  out  again — and  living 
it  right!  Do  you  wonder  that  it  startled  me  to 
find  you  here  in  this  room  ?  " 

The  effort  she  made  to  restrain  herself  and  to  give 
him  a  common-sense  answer  was  worthy  her  splendid 
soul. 

"  But  now  that  your  first  surprise  is  over,  Adam, 
isn't  it  time  to  remember  we  can  never  go  back  to 
the  past?  " 

More  from  her  eyes  than  from  any  mere  facts  he 
realized  the  width  of  the  gulf  that  yawned  so  deeply 
between  them.  He  was  far  more  than  ordinarily 
honorable.  He,  too,  had  risen  and  could  rise  again 
to  splendid,  self-denying  heights.  His  heart  was  a 
battleground  of  conflicts,  with  love  and  his  judgment 
engaged.  He  calmed  himself  anew,  so  far  as  his 
strength  would  permit. 

"  You're  a  wise  little  woman,  Beatrice,"  he  said. 

**  You're  wise — and  right "  He  looked  at  her 

149 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

yearningly.      "  Do   you    ever   give    such    thing- 
little  studio  teas?" 

She  was  no  less  wrought  upon  than  he — and  no  less 
starved.  She  hungered  for  love — his  love — and  pro- 
tection from  worry  and  care.  But  she  would  not 
make  a  sign — she  dared  not  let  him  see  the  things 
that  lay  within  her  heart. 

"  Afternoons,  at  four,  certainly,"  she  answered. 
"  I  hope  you'll  come  and  bring  your  niece,  Miss 
Nickerson.  I  met  her  here  for  a  moment,  and  think 
her  charming.  And  now,  good-by." 

She  offered  her  hand — which  Adam  accepted — and 
kissed. 

"  Good-by,  Beatrice ! "  He  gave  the  more  ro- 
mantic, Italian  pronunciation  to  her  name,  that  once 
in  the  past  she  had  loved  to  hear  upon  his  lips. 

She  flushed  with  lawless  joy,  despite  herself. 

"  You  silly  boy,"  she  murmured,  and  started  for 
the  door. 

He  went  with  her,  out  to  the  hall,  and  rang  for  the 
elevator  boy. 

The  car  was  coming  down. 

"  Good-by,"  she  said  again. 

"  Good-by,"  said  Adam.  "  I'm  coming  soon. 
Good-by — and  God  bless  and  keep  you." 

She  could  not  withhold  a  smile,  from  the  car,  nor 
quell  the  warm  glory  suffusing  all  her  face.  And  so 
she  was  gone,  and  bore  away  such  a  memory  of 
things  in  Adam's  eyes  as  made  her  forget  all  the 
years. 

150 


The  Smoldermg  Spark 

Adam,  for  his  part,  slowly  returned,  like  one  just 
awakened  from  a  dream.  A  new,  subtle  ecstasy  pos- 
sessed his  vital  being.  His  heart  still  rocked  with 
excitement. 

He  sat  in  the  chair  where  she  had  been,  oblivious 
of  all  the  world,  conjuring  back  each  look  and  word 
that  had  passed  in  those  wonderful  moments.  He 
dared  not  think  what  it  all  might  mean — what  the 
future  might  hold  for  them  both.  It  was  all  he 
could  do  to  appreciate  the  fact  that  Beatrice  lived, 
was  home  once  more,  and  alone  in  life's  rough  tumult. 

He  arose  and  paced  the  floor,  at  length,  consumed 
with  ne-y  interest  in  life.  A  hundred  schemes  for 
helping  Beatrice  were  sparkling  in  his  brain.  Yet 
all  through  the  fabric  of  his  wildest  dreams  a  haunt- 
ing subconsciousness  was  playing — a  consciousness 
that  Mae,  his  wife,  had  prior  claims  upon  him. 

For  fully  the  space  of  half  an  hour  he  dwelt  on 
this  wondrous  event.  He  made  no  effort  to  analyze, 
to  plan,  to  consider  the  facts  arrayed  in  opposition 
to  the  mad  emotions  of  his  nature.  He  simply  in- 
dulged himself,  like  a  boy,  sans  reason  or  responsi- 
bility, in  all  the  reactionary  exultations  of  his  being 
induced  by  finding  Beatrice  again — and  finding  her 
free  of  Graham. 

Then,  at  last,  his  hand  came  in  contact  with  the 
bills  he  had  thrust  in  his  pocket.  He  drew  them 
forth,  sat  down  at  his  desk,  and  mentally  summed  up 
their  totals. 

It  brought  him  back  to  his  round  of  life  in  a  grim, 
151 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

sardonic  manner.  The  utter  lovelessness  and  barren- 
ness of  his  and  Mae's  association  produced  a  new  re- 
vulsion in  his  soul.  Their  purposeless  past,  their 
futile  present,  their  promiseless  future — all  were  pre- 
sented to  him  vividly,  to  sicken  his  very  love  of  life. 
He  neither  knew  how  he  had  borne  it,  nor  how  he  could 
bear  it  again.  Abysses  of  mockery  loomed  behind, 
abysses  of  ruin  ahead.  He  could  see  himself  for 
years  to  come  enacting  king's  jester  to  the  Fates.  His 
enacting  the  role  of  lover  to  his  wife  was  this  and 
nothing  more. 

He  was  human,  animal,  filled  heart-full  with  natu- 
ral passions  and  affection.  He  was  held  away,  de- 
nied, overworked — merely  used  as  a  money-getting 
tool.  He  must  meet  her  bills,  and  send  her  away  and 
smother  his  manhood,  rule,  and  desires — and  all  for — 
what  ?  , 

One  by  one  he  scanned  the  accounts  that  repre- 
sented some  two  or  three  months,  at  most,  of  Mae's 
indulgence  of  her  whims. 

He  leaned  back  at  last,  with  the  bills  in  hand,  a 
grim,  mirthless  smile  upon  his  lips.  He  nodded. 

To  his  lips  arose  the  Biblical  words: 

"  What  shall  he  have  that  worketh?  " 

As  if  in  reply  to  his  query  of  the  Fates,  Mae's  dog 
strolled  in  at  the  door. 


152 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    OPENING    DOOE    OF    TEMPTATION 

BEATRICE  GEAHAM  went  home  to  her  lonely  studio 
tingling  and  burning  with  excitement.  They  had  met 
— and  the  love  that  had  long  lain  smoldering  had 
burst  once  more  into  flame. 

She  loved  him  more  than  ever  in  her  life — and  yet 
more  hopelessly.  His  love — that  she  had  felt  and 
seen — had  come,  with  the  years,  to  the  strength  of 
prime  maturity.  It  had  surged  upon  her  like  a 
flood.  It  had  swept  her  heart  away  in  tumult, 
making  her  fear  and  rejoice.  Both  sheer  delight 
and  instinctive  alarm  had  possessed  her  soul  to- 
together.  She  had  not  dared  to  be  wholly  glad,  but 
the  gladness  had  stormed  her  being. 

Her  weak  little  hope  that  perhaps  they  should  find 
the  old  attraction  dead — a  hope  she  had  builded  for 
them  both,  since  the  gulf  between  them  was  deep  and 
wide,  and  not  to  be  bridged  by  a  wish — this  negative 
emotion  was  no  more.  It  had  failed  utterly.  There 
had  been  not  a  second's  delay  for  questioning.  Their 
revivified  love  had  been  terribly  certain,  terribly  mu- 
tual and  swift. 

She  could  not  think,  she  could  not  see,  as  she  made 
153 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

her  way  home  on  the  cars.  For  the  moment,  at  least, 
she  was  given  up  to  the  sweetest  joy  she  had  known 
in  many  years.  What  the  future  might  hold  she 
dared  not  ask,  for  the  shadows  held  doubt  and  pain. 
Regrets  immeasurably  poignant  rose  in  tides  upon 
her  thoughts — regrets  of  the  past  and  revilings  of  the 
past,  and  vain,  wild  striking  at  the  Fates  and  men 
who  had  wrought  all  this  ruin  of  their  lives.  The 
cry  of  love  rose  shrill  within  her  breast.  It  cried  in 
passionate  incoherence  of  rights  that  she  and  Adam 
could  not  lose — rights  still  possessed  in  nature's  law, 
though  Mae  was  his  legal  wife.  Bitter-sweet 
draughts  of  love  and  hopelessness  inflamed  and  galled 
her  senses.  He  had  loved  her  once,  he  loved  her  now 
— but  she  knew  it,  alas,  too  late ! 

By  one  of  the  ironies  of  petty  coincidences,  her 
studio  was  cold.  The  steam  heat  had  failed  in  the 
afternoon,  leaving  it  chill  and  damp.  Her  purse 
was  low,  her  cupboard  nearly  empty,  her  dinner  still 
to  be  prepared.  From  time  to  time  she  had  been 
asked  to  dinner  by  her  friends.  Her  acquaintance 
was  wide — and  hollow.  Numbers  of  her  so-called 
friends  were  high  in  society's  favor.  Their  homes, 
when  she  called,  were  beautiful  and  warm,  filled  to 
the  brim  with  luxury,  dripping  with  necessities, 
such  as  here  were  so  often  denied.  It  had  happened 
at  least  a  hundred  times  that  when  she  needed  com- 
fort most  hospitality's  voice  had  been  silent. 

To-night  was  one  of  these  occasions,  yet  she  did 
not  surrender  to  dejection.  She  had  placed  her  box 

154 


The  Opening  Door  of  Temptation 

of  paints  upon  the  table.  She  took  off  her  gloves  and 
her  hat.  How  dingy  and  cheerless  it  wa»  in  this 
place  where  she  worked  and  lived!  The  walls  were 
stained  and  smoky.  Sketches  and  daubs  of  paint 
were  everywhere.  Her  table  was  uneasy  on  its  legs ; 
her  couch  was  inclined  to  lumps.  Behind  her  screen 
in  the  corner  was  a  sink,  where  a  faucet  constantly 
dripped.  There  was  dust  that  nothing  could  re- 
move. It  had  come  with  the  earliest  tenant.  Only 
the  orderly,  neat,  good  housekeeping  that  she  cease- 
lessly maintained  could  have  lifted  the  sordid  from 
the  room. 

In  the  dusk  it  might  have  seemed  roomy  and  pic- 
turesque. When  Beatrice  lighted  the  gas  and  looked 
about,  its  tawdriness  appalled  her  suddenly  and  sick- 
ened her  beauty-loving  senses.  She  had  seen  so  much 
of  this  existence — this  subterfuge  of  living!  How 
weary  of  it  all  was  her  being ! 

She  sat  down  to  think,  but  rose  almost  immediately. 
Self-pity  she  abhorred.  And  to  think  of  relief  now 
that  Adam  was  found — Adam  and  love  undiminished 
— this  was  a  madness  from  which  she  turned  with  all 
of  her  soul's  resolution. 

Out  to  the  second,  the  "  house-keeping  "  room,  she 
proceeded  with  no  more  delay.  She  changed  her 
waist  for  a  working  blouse,  tied  on  an  apron  to  pro- 
tect her  skirt,  then  washed  two  potatoes,  put  them  to 
boil  on  a  broken  little  gas-stove,  by  the  window,  and 
took  from  her  cupboard  the  meager  things  that  must 
serve  for  the  evening's  repast. 

155 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

It  was  stern  resumption  of  her  round.  The  flame 
in  her  heart  was  a  sweet,  wild  thing,  but  she  knew  it 
must  burn  no  higher.  She  turned  her  thoughts  to 
Mae's  projected  trip  and  wondered  about  a  partial 
payment  for  the  work  already  done.  She  should  cer- 
tainly feel  obliged  to  refuse  should  Adam  think  to 
offer  the  money  for  his  wife.  And  meantime,  she 
owed  a  month's  arrears  of  rent  and  prospects  for 
work  these  panic  days  were  exceptionally  disappoint- 
ing. 

That  night,  while  Adam,  Babe,  and  Paul  were  sit- 
ting together  in  a  theater-box,  with  music,  delights 
and  jollity  purveyed,  Beatrice  sewed,  to  occupy  her 
thoughts,  by  the  heat  of  her  little  gas-cooker. 

On  the  following  day,  in  response  to  an  invitation 
'phoned  from  a  rich  old  dowager,  a  Mrs.  Van  Pelt, 
who  lived  by  herself  in  an  old-time  mansion  on  Fifth 
Avenue,  she  left  the  studio  at  noon  to  visit  till  eight 
in  the  evening.  Thus  Babe,  who  called  at  three,  was 
missed.  ,  She  had  come  of  her  own  initiative,  to  ask 
if  Beatrice  would  not  join  her  uncle  and  herself  in  a 
"  Little  Hungary "  table-d'hote  affair  they  had 
planned  offhand,  for  fun. 

Babe  and  Adam  ate  alone,  for  Paul  had  been  cap- 
tured by  Frona.  Beatrice  found  Babe's  card  be- 
neath her  door,  when  she  returned — and  felt  a  flood 
of  comfort  come  to  inundate  her  heart. 

On  Monday  Mae  departed  for  the  South  without  a 
single  thought  to  spare  for  an  artist  sorely  in  need. 
Adam's  day  was  consumed  in  assisting  with  count- 

156 


The  Opening  Door  of  Temptation 

less  trifles  of  the  start.  The  train,  with  Mae  and 
her  maid,  pulled  out  from  Jersey  City  at  three. 
Adam  and  Babe  were  left  on  the  platform  together. 
Babe  voiced  the  situation  frankly : 

"  I'm  sorry  I  can't  be  sorrier.  I  hope  the  trip 
will  do  her  good." 

Adam  said :  "  I  wish  it  might." 

They  started  back  to  the  ferry.  Babe  looked  at 
her  uncle  quietly. 

"  Has  it  ever  done  her  good  before?  " 

"  Not  much." 

"  That's  what  I  thought."  She  added  presently : 
"  Gee !  it  would  brace  her  up  if  she  had  to  earn  her 
living  for  a  year  !  " 

Adam  was  startled.  "  Why,  Babe,  she  hasn't  got 
the  strength.  She  couldn't  earn  the  postage  on  her 
letters." 

"  Oh,  I  know  that's  the  way  it  looks,"  Babe  re- 
plied, "  but  all  the  same  I'll  bet  if  you  chucked  her 
in  and  she  had  to  swim  or  drown  she  wouldn't  go 
under.  She  isn't  half  so  delicate  as  everybody 
thinks." 

All  the  way  over  and  up  the  river  she  looked  in- 
tently from  the  window,  absorbed  in  the  plying  craft 
like  so  many  shuttles  of  commerce. 

They  landed  at  last  at  Twenty-third  Street. 
Adam  looked  at  his  watch.  It  lacked  nearly  half 
an  hour  to  four.  The  blood  surged  in  floods  to  his 
heart  and  brain  at  the  thought  of  the  afternoon's 
possibilities. 

157 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

"  Here,  Babe,"  he  said,  "  I'll  get  you  a  cab  and 
send  you  home." 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "  she  asked  him. 

"  Down  to  the  office.     Why?  " 

"  Are  you  going  in  a  cab  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not.  The  cars  are  good  enough  for 
me." 

"  Then  they're  good  enough  for  me,"  said  Babe. 
"  You're  not  going  to  mollycoddle  me  the  way  you 
have  Aunt  Mae.  I'd  walk  if  I  knew  the  way  and  it 
wasn't  so  far  for  a  girl  to  go  alone." 

"You  would?"  said  Adam.  "Come  on,  then, 
we'll  walk  it  home  together." 

Babe's  eyes  lighted. 

"  But  what  about  the  office?  S5 

"  Hang  the  office !  The  afternoon  is  nearly  gone. 
It  will  do  us  both  good  to  take  a  stroll." 

He  had  grasped  at  the  thought  almost  without 
volition — to  save  him  from  himself. 


158 


CHAPTER  XH 

THE    DANGEE    LINE 

AT  four  o'clock  on  Tuesday  afternoon  Adam  stood 
waiting  before  the  door  where  Beatrice  lived  and 
toiled.  In  his  hand  he  bore  a  slender  box  with  a 
dozen  exquisite  roses.  He  had  not  touched  the  bell. 

His  heart  was  laboring  in  tumult.  He  waited  to 
force  it  to  calm.  As  the  place  impressed  him  with 
its  age,  untidiness  and  faded  grandeur  of  the  past, 
he  felt  a  sense  of  the  pressure  under  which  Beatrice 
existed.  Indignation  at  the  turn  of  her  fate,  honest 
compassion  with  her  plight  and  a  wish  -to  ease  her 
walks  of  life,  supplanted,  in  a  measure,  the  excite- 
ment in  his  blood. 

He  rang  the  bell.  The  act  was  no  sooner  accom- 
plished than  new,  engulfing  excitement  swept  upon 
him. 

Beatrice  opened  the  door. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  at  beholding  him  there,  and  her 
face  was  abruptly  crimsoned.  She  was  dressed  in 
her  painting  blouse,  which  seemed  to  him  singularly 
becoming. 

"  Well,  Beatrice,  I  came,"  he  said,  moving  actively 
159 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

in  beside  her.  "  I  thought  I'd  come  promptly  at 
four." 

She  tried  to  smile.  She,  too,  was  weak  with  excite- 
ment, thus  to  behold  him.  She  had  thought  he  would 
come — perhaps  on  Monday.  She  had  feared  it, 
hoped  for  it,  hoped  he  would  not,  and  then  had 
worked,  to  fill  her  thoughts,  but  all  in  vain.  Her  an- 
swer to  his  somewhat  superfluous  announcement  was 
an  effort  to  accept  his  presence  offhandedly. 

"  You  thought  you'd  come  early  to  avoid  the 
crowd?  " 

He  colored,  guiltily.     But  his  answer  was  frank. 

"  I  was  rather  in  hopes  of  being  first — if  only  for 
just  a  few  minutes." 

He  still  held  his  box.  They  stood  face  to  face 
within  the  room,  each  subtly  aware  of  the  play  of 
emotions  between  them.  How  well  she  knew  there 
would  be  no  other  visitors !  How  slender  had  been 
the  subterfuge  by  which  she  had  guarded  her- 
self! 

"  I  hope  you'll  not  mind  if  I  continue  with  my 
work,"  she  suggested,  closing  the  door.  "  I  never 
know  when  my  patrons  may  call  for  some  pot-boiling 
things." 

She  had  done  no  work  that  afternoon,  despite  the 
fact  that  a  heap  of  small  engravings  had  been  left  in 
her  care  to  be  tinted  in  color  by  hand.  She  had 
found  herself  too  restless,  too  disturbed  by  thoughts 
of  the  man  at  last  before  her  in  her  home.  Now, 
however,  with  every  appearance  of  engrossing  haste, 

160 


The  Danger  Line 

she  went  to  her  table,  caught  up  her  tools  and  pre- 
pared for  defense  in  toil. 

"  Why,  certainly,  go  right  on,"  said  Adam.  "  I'll 
feel  so  much  more  at  home."  He  looked  around. 
His  own  big  heart  was  more  than  uneasy  in  its  belfry. 
"  So  this  is  where  you  force  a  reluctant  world  to 
kneel  and  pay  its  homage?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  this  is  where  the  world 
forces  reluctant  me  to  kneel  and  pay  rent." 

He  laughed,  crossing  to  the  couch,  where  he  laid 
his  box,  to  cut  the  cords. 

"  How  much  that  sounds  like  the  Beatrice  of  old. 
Meantime,  tell  me  where  I  can  find  a  vase  and  some 
water  for  these." 

She  glanced  at  him  quickly  as  out  of  the  box  he 
lifted  the  gorgeous  roses,  like  bits  of  summer  fra- 
grances and  sunshine  snatched  prematurely  from  the 
year. 

"  Oh,  Adam,"  she  said,  "  you  shouldn't  bring  me 
flowers  !  I'm  not  prepared  for  that !  " 

"  Prepared  ?  You've  got  a  cupful  of  water — 
and  there's  a  glass." 

He  did  not  understand  the  wild,  sweet  love  she  had 
for  all  these  heart's  ambassadors — the  fearfully  re- 
sistless appeal  they  made  to  her  soul — the  element 
they  added  to  her  struggle. 

"  Oh,  I  know,"  she  said,  rising.  "  But  don't  you 
understand " 

"  Now  go  right  on  with  your  painting,"  he  inter- 
rupted, moving  at  once  for  the  vase.  "  I  can  hear 

161 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

some  water  dripping.  I'll  fix  them  right  up  while 
you  wait." 

But  she  had  come  to  his  side  and  taken  them  all 
from  his  hands. 

"  You  shall  not  do  anything  of  the  sort,"  she  said. 
"  Please  do  sit  down,  if  you  can." 

He  sat  on  the  couch  and  watched  her  take  the 
flowers  in  her  arms.  He  had  always  known  of 
her  love  for  roses;  he  felt  it  now  and  beheld  it, 
subtly,  in  her  very  attitude.  Yet  he  asked: 

"  Don't  you  care  for  roses  any  longer  ?  " 

"  I  don't  like  to  have  you  bring  them,"  she  said, 
and  she  went  behind  the  screen. 

"  Oh,  Beatrice,"  he  pleaded.  "  Now  don't  say 
that.  You  used  to  love  the  ones  I  brought." 

She  did  not  answer.  Behind  the  screen  she  was 
pressing  the  roses  hotly  to  her  lips.  Her  soul  was 
distraught  and  her  nature  was  aflame  at  the  wine 
from  their  fragrant  chalices.  When  she  presently 
came  and  placed  them  on  a  stand,  to  turn  her  back 
upon  them  and  once  more  descend  on  her  work,  a 
tiny  scowl  was  on  her  brow. 

"  What  used  to  be,  Adam,  has  nothing  to  do  with 
to-day.  You've  got  to  remember  that." 

"  I  can't,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  expect  to  succeed, 
no  matter  how  hard  I  may  try." 

"  Well,  you  must,  or  I  can't  have  you  come."  It 
was  not  an  easy  thing  to  say,  but  none  of  her 
struggle  was  easy. 

It  hurt  him  a  little.  His  face  lost  something 
162 


The  Danger  Line 

of  its  boyishness.     He  arose  and  came  nearer  her 
chair. 

"  I've  got  to  come,"  he  told  her  gravely.  "  You 
don't  know  how  hard  it  was  to  forbid  myself  yester- 
day— and  Sunday." 

"  Oh,  I  found  Miss  Nickerson's  card,"  she  an- 
swered, ignoring  his  more  personal  remark.  "  I  was 
sorry  to  miss  her.  I  suppose  you  sent  her,  Adam." 

"  No,  I  didn't.  I  guess  dear  Babe  is  lonely  too. 
She  came  on  her  own  account." 

She  looked  up  at  him  quickly. 

"  I'm  glad  of  that." 

"Why?" 

'*  Oh,  doesn't  every  woman  like  to  think  that  a 
sweet  young  girl,  who  has  seen  her  but  once  is 
drawn  to  seek  her  out  again?  Perhaps  she  wasn't 
drawn  at  all,  but  I'd  like  to  think  she  was." 

Adam  sat  down  on  a  stool  that  he  drew  to  her  side. 

"  Yes,  she  liked  you,  Beatrice,  as  everybody  does," 
he  told  her,  seriously.  "  She  speaks  of  you  often. 
She  wishes  to  come  again." 

Beatrice  painted  industriously.  It  was  pleasant  to 
have  him  there  at  her  side,  but  she  dared  not  relent 
her  vigilance  or  abate  one  jot  of  her  forced  austerity. 

"Why  didn't  you  bring  her  to-day?" 

" 1  wanted  to  see  you  alone." 

"  But  Adam,  this  isn't  going  to  do.  Your  wife, 
I  suppose,  left  town  yesterday." 

His  answer  revealed  his  state  of  mind.  "  I  didn't 
ask  her  to  go." 

168 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

She  said:  "Are  you  only  thinking  of  yourself? 
When  you  come  like  this  doesn't  it  possibly  involve 
someone  else?  " 

His  answer  was  blunt: 

"  Don't  you  wish  me  to  come?  " 

A  warm  flush  leaped  to  her  cheeks. 

"  Yes — if  you  bring  Miss  Nickerson." 

"Ah,  Beatrice,  don't,"  he  pleaded.  "I'll  bring 
her  often,  of  course.  But  once  in  a  while  I'll  have 
to  see  you  all  by  myself.  I  can't  help  feeling  as  I 
do.  It  wasn't  through  anything  we  did  that  you 
and  I  were  parted.  It  isn't  as  if  one  or  the  other 
had  committed  some  fault  or  treachery  to — well,  to 
love.  We  were  infamously  cheated,  and  it  doesn't 
seem  as  if  we've  lost  every  right  in  the  world  when 
now,  at  last,  we  have  found  each  other  again ! " 

It  was  too  much  like  her  own  arguments  not  to 
tell  upon  her  heart.  Yet  she  dared  not  relent. 

"  Will  you  please  tell  me,  Adam,  what  rights  we 
now  retain  ?  " 

The  warm  blood  crept  to  his  face. 

"  The — rights  of  good,  enduring  friendship — at 
least,"  he  faltered. 

"  If  you'd  only  keep  it  at  friendship,"  she  an- 
swered, "  I  would  ask  for  nothing  more."  She 
added  in  a  moment :  "  But  you  won't." 

"  I  will !  "  he  declared.  "  I  want  to,  Beatrice.  I 
wish  to  be  the  very  best  friend  you  have  in  all  the 
world!  Don't  you  think  I  see  how  you  are  working? 
Don't  you  think  I  understand?  If  you'll  just  let 

164 


The  Danger  Line 

me  help  out  a  little,  it  will  make  me  as  happy  as  a 
boy!" 

She  smiled  and  shook  her  head. 

"  I  was  afraid  it  would  be  that  sort  of  friendship 
— generous,  impulsive,  inconsiderate." 

"  Inconsiderate?  " 

"  Don't  you  know,  dear  Adam,  that  you  can't  be 
such  a  friend  as  that  ? — while  I'm  a  widow  and  you're 
a  married  man?  You  can't  be  so  friendly  and  help- 
ful. You  can't  come  often  alone.  Besides,  I  do 
not  need  your  help.  I  was  getting  along  before  we 
met — and  was  happy  and  contented." 

"  You  were  getting  along,"  he  agreed.  "  I  don't 
believe  you  were  happy  and  contented.  You  couldn't 
be  and  still  be  you."  He  placed  his  hand  upon  her 
wrist,  and  she  felt  him  tremble. 

"  I  was !  "  she  asserted.  "  I  was  till  you 

Must  you  come  and  destroy  my  little  peace  of 
mind?  " 

"  I  hope  to  give  you  more." 

She  withdrew  her  wrist  from  his  grasp. 

"  You  can't — you  can't !  "  she  answered  feelingly. 
"  You  mustn't  give  me  anything — not  anything  at 
all!" 

"  Oh,  come  now,"  he  pleaded,  "  my  wife  has  gone 
away  without  a  word  of  paying  for  work  you've 
done.  It  isn't  fair !  It  isn't  right !  At  least " 

"  Adam,  if  you  please !  "  she  interrupted.  "  My 
business  was  with  Mrs.  Croswell.  Unless  you  wish 
to  offend  me  utterly  you  will  make  no  reference  to 

165 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

that  subject  again."  The  pained  look  that  came 
upon  his  face  did  not  escape  her  glance  of  scrutiny. 
He  had  spoken  like  a  generous  boy.  She  added 
contritely :  "  I  hope  you'll  try  to  forgive  me,  but 
you  must  be  made  to  understand." 

He  arose  and  paced  the  floor. 

"  I  try  to  see  things  the  way  they  seem  to  you," 
he  confessed.  "  But,  Beatrice,  life  is  so  barren  at 
best — so  full  of  error,  toil,  and  self-denial.  I  grow 
weary  of  the  game.  We're  a  long  time  dead,  after 
the  shortest  sort  of  a  tragic  struggle.  Our  days 
are  going  by — and  what  have  we  had — you  and  I? 
What  looms  ahead  in  the  future?  We  were  thrust 
apart,  through  no  deed  of  our  own.  We  have 
worked  and  slaved  ever  since — for  the  wrong  one. 
We  have  paid  in  the  price  for  something  by  way  of 
reward.  How  long  do  you  think  we  can  go  on 
living  as  we  are?  How  long  do  you  think  you  can 
keep  this  business  going?  How  long  can  this  bar- 
ren existence  continue — this  mockery  of  ourselves, 
our  happiness,  our  rights?  " 

Not  a  word  of  his  argument  was  new.  Not  a 
question  he  asked  was  novel  to  her  thought.  She 
had  conned  them  all,  repeatedly.  Her  only  defense 
was  a  smile  and  a  woman's  query. 

"  Has  it  never  occurred  to  your  mind  that  a 
woman  may  marry  again?  " 

He  halted  abruptly. 

"  Who  ?  Who  is  he,  Beatrice  ?  You  never  men- 
tioned this  before." 

166 


The  Danger  Line 

"  How  often  have  we  met,"  she  asked,  "  that  I 
should  tell  you  everything?  " 

"Tell  me  who  he  is,"  Adam  insisted.  "I'll  go 
right  out  and  get  him  and  bring  the  parson 
too." 

It  was  like  his  boyishness,  and  she  smiled. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  get  rid  of  me  so  quickly  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  be  your  friend ! "  he  told  her,  halt- 
ing before  her  and  raising  her  face  to  his  own.  "  If 
there's  any  good  man  you  wish  to  marry,  I'll  help 
with  all  my  heart ! " 

It  touched  and  piqued  her  together. 

"  I  haven't  said  I  wish  to  marry — just  yet,"  she 
found  herself  obliged  to  confess,  as  she  pushed  away 
his  hand  and  resumed  her  painting.  "  You're  in 
such  a  dreadful  hurry." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  the  man  ?  "  he  demanded. 
"  If  he's  broke  and  I  like  him — I'll  stake  him  and 
start  him  off  right.  Tell  me  who  he  is !  " 

There  was  no  such  person,  since  of  all  the  men 
she  chanced  to  know,  not  one  had  aroused  her  heart. 

"  I'm  not  obliged  to  tell  you  everything,"  she 
said.  "  Perhaps  I  don't  wish  to  marry." 

"  Why  not  ?  You  can't  go  on  like  this  till  you 
get  to  be  old  and  helpless.  Why  don't  you  wish  to 
be  married?  " 

She  painted  for  a  moment  in  silence.  Adam  re- 
peated his  query. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know ! "  she  told  him,  finally.  "  Per- 
haps I  could  never  love  sufficiently.  Perhaps  there 

167 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

is  something  dead  in  my  heart.     I  don't  believe  I 
could  ever  love  a  man  again  if  I  tried." 

"  Yes,  you  could,"  he  said,  "  and  you  do.  You 
love  me,  right  this  minute." 

"  Well,  of  all  the  impudence ! "  she  exclaimed. 
"  And  arrogance !  Have  you  always  had  this  master- 
ful conceit?  " 

"  It  isn't  conceit — it's  conviction,  right  in  here !  " 
he  thumped  himself  upon  the  heart.  "  What's  the 
use  of  beating  about  the  bush?  I  couldn't  love  you 
the  way  I  do — nor  feel  my  mad  joy  in  your  presence, 
if  the  old-time  bond  were  not  intact — if  you  did  not 
love  me  even  more  than  in  the  days  before  we  were 
driven  apart." 

He  took  her  breath  with  his  boldness,  his  cer- 
tainty of  love.  She  knew  he  could  not  scrutinize 
her  heart — that  his  words  and  convictions  had  no 
real  confession  from  herself  to  stand  upon — yet  all 
that  he  said  was  absolute  fact  and  the  truth  of  it 
burned  her  to  the  soul. 

She  took  refuge  once  more  in  evasion. 

"  Are  you  certain  that  I  loved  you — in  the  past? 
Are  you  sure  that  I  ever  confessed  it  ?  " 

"  You  kissed  me,"  he  answered.  "  Yes — I'm  sure 
you  loved  me." 

"  I  trust  that  all  the  men  I  ever  kissed  will  not 
appear  like  this,"  she  told  him,  smilingly.  "  It 
might  prove  embarrassing." 

"  That  isn't  the  point,"  he  urged  with  commend- 
able tenacity.  "  I  said  you  love  me  now." 

168 


The  Danger  Line 

"  And  I  denied  it,  most  emphatically ! "  she  an- 
swered. "  I  don't  and  never  shall !  And  I  think 
you'd  better  go  home.  I  can't  be  expected  to 
work  like  this,  and  you've  been  here  quite  long 
enough." 

The  sting  was  drawn  from  all  she  said.  It  was 
one  good  friend  to  another.  It  did  not  hurt  and 
Adam  knew  she  was  right  in  this  as  in  everything 
else.  He  was  a  strange  combination  of  the  boy 
and  man,  for  which  she  loved  him  again.  Far  more 
than  he,  she  realized  the  dangers  to  which  they  could 
glide.  And  with  all  the  hunger  in  her  heart — 
hunger  for  love — such  love  as  his — with  all  it  could 
give,  repay  and  assuage — she  must  fight — and  fight 
alone.  She  had  only  his  honor  for  an  ally.  On 
that  she  felt  she  could  rely.  He  was  honorable, 
generous,  sympathetic.  Yet  also  he  was  strong,  im-« 
pulsive,  and  starved.  His  natural  passions  made  him 
what  he  was — a  virile,  splendid  being.  Her  own 
completed  the  wondrous  cycle  of  existence — the  match 
for  his — their  complement.  And  against  all  nature, 
embodied  in  him,  in  her  herself,  and  in  love  that  the 
years  had  increased,  she  must  make  her  struggle — 
for  them  both. 

"  Go  home,"  he  repeated.  "  It's  a  word  to  make 
you  laugh.  But,  such  as  it  is,  I  suppose  I'll  have 
to  wander  back  there  for  a  while."  He  went  to  the 
couch,  took  up  his  hat  and  returned  to  where  she 
sat.  "  Will  you  go  out  to  dinner  with  Babe  and  me, 
to-morrow  night — if  she  asks  you  all  by  herself?  " 

169 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  Beatrice.  "  Does  everybody 
call  Miss  Nickerson,  Babe?" 

"  You'll  find  it's  the  thing  to  call  her,"  he  said. 
"  You  and  Babe  are  going  to  be  friends." 

She  rose  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"  I  hope  so.  Good-by,  Adam.  I  hope  to  see  her 
soon.  You  must  bring  her,  or  send  her  to  me  often. 
I  think  you'd  better  send  her — by  herself." 

"  You  don't  think  anything  of  the  kind,"  he  said. 
He  kissed  her  hand  upon  the  back,  then  turned  it 
and  kissed  it  on  the  palm.  "  Till  to-morrow  at  din- 
ner. Good-by." 

"  On  Babe's  invitation  only,"  she  said,  and  opened 
the  door  to  let  him  go. 

"  You'll  get  it,"  he  answered  smilingly.  "  Babe 
and  I  are  chums." 

She  stood  by  the  couch  when  he  had  gone,  with 
her  hand  pressed  hard  against  her  cheek.  In  a  pas- 
sionate outburst  of  emotion  she  sped  to  his  roses,  on 
the  stand. 

"  Oh,  Adam !  Adam !  Adam ! "  she  said,  and  she 
crushed  one  fiercely  in  her  hand. 

When  she  closed  her  eyes  and  relaxed  her  grip, 
to  take  a  new  hold  upon  her  self-control,  the  rose 
fell  in  petals  at  her  feet.  She  presently  saw  what 
she  had  done. 

"  That's  just  exactly  what  would  happen,"  she 
murmured  to  herself — "  just  exactly  what  would 
happen ! " 


170 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A   RESPITE 

/ 

BABE  came  in  person  to  the  studio  on  Wednesday. 
She  had  required  no  urging  from  Adam,  for  into  her 
heart,  at  the  moment  of  the  meeting  with  Beatrice, 
had  crept  one  of  those  immediate  friendships,  so 
rare  and  beautiful  in  the  world,  and  meant  for  long 
endurance. 

Moreover,  Babe  was,  as  Adam  conjectured,  lonely. 
Aside  from  a  very  few  acquaintances  supplied  by 
Mae,  she  knew  almost  no  one  in  all  the  crowded  town. 
It  had  been  a  distinct  unkindness.  for  Mae  to  summon 
her  thus  from  the  West  and  abandon  her  completely. 
She  made  herself  useful  about  the  house ;  she  haunted 
the  places  of  public  interest  in  her  own  little  way  of 
independence,  alone;  she  wrote  long  letters  home. 
Nevertheless,  had  not  her  uncle  Adam  planned  nu- 
merous outside  dinners,  theater  parties  and  visits, 
she  must  have  been  desolate  indeed. 

Some  bond  of  sympathy,  far  too  fine  for  explana- 
tion, sprang  between  herself  and  Beatrice  that  after- 
noon. Babe  had  come  to  the  workshop-home  with 
such  a  childish  ingenuousness  and  desire  to  be  friends 

171 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

that  Beatrice  was  infinitely  touched.  And  her  heart 
was  warmed  by  her  visitor's  candid  advances. 

"  I  just  knew  I'd  like  you,  the  moment  you  spoke, 
at  Uncle  Adam's — the  day  you  came  to  paint  Aunt 
Mae,"  she  said,  when  the  first  formal  greetings  had 
been  concluded.  "  I've  just  wanted  to  meet  someone 
like  you  and  get  to  be  awful  good  friends." 

Beatrice  laughed,  in  sheer  pleasure. 

"  But  suppose  you  discover  I'm  a  very  dull  person, 
after  all,  and  not  in  the  least  what  you've  expected?  " 

"  Gee !  "  said  Babe,  "  I  don't  like  people  to  be  as 
bright  as  a  tin  roof  all  the  time.  But  I  do  love  art 
and  I  love  a  place  like  this,  and  I  hope  you'll  let  me 
come  pretty  often.  I  guess  you  needn't  worry  about 
yourself.  Uncle  Adam  said  he  met  you  when  Aunt 
Mae  wouldn't  sit,  and  admits  he  liked  you  too." 

Beatrice  slightly  flushed. 

"  You  and  your  uncle  are  very  kind,"  she  answered. 
"  I  sincerely  hope  to  see  you  frequently." 

Babe  had  not  removed  her  things.  She  remained 
for  a  short  time  only.  The  dinner  arrangements  had 
been  readily  accepted,  and  reluctantly  she  departed. 

The  dinner  itself,  at  one  of  the  city's  semi-bo- 
hemian  cafes,  was  a  quiet  success,  but  a  trial  as  well 
— for  Beatrice  and  Adam.  They  had  failed  to 
realize  the  difficulties  attendant  upon  a  constant  ef- 
fort to  enact  the  role  of  persons  only  newly  ac- 
quainted. The  experiment,  while  it  afforded  great 
pleasure  to  Babe,  was  not  to  be  repeated.  It  had 
served  one  purpose  only,  tucked  away  in  Adam's  mind 

172 


A  Respite 

— that  of  fostering  a  certain  friendly  intimacy  be- 
tween Beatrice  and  Babe,  results  of  which  were  later 
to  appear. 

For  two  days  he  waited,  when  his  seed  had  been 
sown,  meantime  consumed  with  impatience.  Then 
Babe,  who  had  been  to  the  studio  again,  either  caught 
at  the  mental  suggestion  flowing  from  his  brain,  or 
evolved  the  thought  independently. 

"  Uncle  Adam,"  she  said,  as  they  sat  at  the  table 
that  evening,  alone,  "  I  feel  awful  sorry  for  Mrs. 
Graham.  I  think  she  must  be  having  a  real  hard 
time  to  earn  her  living.  She's  brave  and  never  says 
a  word,  but  she  doesn't  have  work  enough  that  really 
pays." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Adam,  "  that's  unfortunate. 
How  would  you  like  to  have  your  miniature  painted  ?  " 

It  was  this  of  which  he  had  been  thinking. 

"  Oh,"  said  Babe,  "  I'm  not  pretty  enough,  or  im- 
portant. Besides,  I  think  Mrs.  Graham  would  feel 
we  did  it  to  help.  What's  the  matter  with  Emily? 
You're  awfully  stuck  on  her.  I  could  take  her  to 
the  studio — and  Mrs.  Graham  would  never  guess — 
and  I  think  Mrs.  Bronson  would  simply  be  tickled 
to  death." 

Babe  had  cultivated  the  Bronsons  with  the  utmost 
success,  as  a  champion  of  Adam's  little  friend. 

Adam  now  looked  at  her  in  wonder.  Why  such  a 
brilliant  idea  as  this,  and  an  idea  at  once  so  simple 
and  natural,  should  not  have  occurred  to  his  mind 
before,  made  him  marvel.  Yet  he  did  not  leap  to 

173 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

embrace  it  with  such  an  ardor  as  to  reveal  his  state 
of  mind. 

"  That  isn't  so  bad  a  scheme,"  he  answered,  as  if 
upon  deliberation.  "  I'll  leave  it  all  to  you,  little 
girl,  if  you  care  to  put  it  through.  Ask  the  Bron- 
sons  as  soon  as  you  please.  If  they  give  their  con- 
sent, I'll  gladly  pay  for  the  portrait  and  present  it 
to  them  when  it's  finished.  I  would  also  suggest  that 
nothing  be  mentioned  to  Mrs.  Graham  of  my  con- 
nection with  the  matter." 

"  Well,  I  should  say  not !  "  Babe  declared.  "  If 
you'll  leave  it  to  me  I  know  I  can  fix  it  right  away." 

She  achieved  her  desired  results  with  amazing 
promptness — and  the  sittings  were  presently  begun. 
Even  a  part  of  the  price  agreed  upon  was  accepted 
in  advance,  and  Beatrice  harbored  no  suspicions. 
Adam  was  achieving  his  object — that  of  helping  to 
ease  off  the  pressure  at  the  studio,  as  one  behind 
the  scenes. 

Meantime,  as  part  of  the  workings  of  Fate,  Will 
Sloane  was  called  to  Washington,  on  business  of 
vital  concern.  Babe  and  Beatrice  became  increas- 
ingly friendly,  and  Adam  called  at  the  studio  at  the 
most  unexpected  of  moments,  evenings  and  late 
afternoons. 

He  tried,  in  vain,  to  suppress  his  consuming  de- 
sire to  appear  there  every  day.  He  realized  it  was 
madness;  he  comprehended  to  the  full  the  genuine 
anxiety  excited  in  the  breast  of  the  woman  he  loved. 
Yet  he  was  drawn  by  every  irresistible  impulse  of  his 

174 


A  Respite 

being.  His  love  for  Beatrice  had  almost  hourly  in- 
creased. Its  tenderness,  its  generosity  and  its  pas- 
sion, expanding  beyond  all  control,  had  left  no  space 
within  his  heart  or  mind  for  the  lodgment  of  logic 
or  reason. 

His  love,  moreover,  was  infectious.  Despite  her 
judgment,  her  protest,  and  her  struggle,  Beatrice 
knew  it  was  flooding  her  soul.  Her  own  vast  love,  in 
rebellion  at  restraint,  had  been  more  than  sufficient 
to  engross  her  strength,  as  she  fought  to  deny  it 
expression.  With  Adam's  in  league  with  her  secret 
heart,  she  was  battling  in  sheer  desperation — making 
her  stand  as  best  she  might,  with  defeat  coming  on 
like  a  whirlwind. 

She  begged  that  Adam  would  not  come — while  her 
heart  and  soul  made  him  welcome.  She  implored 
against  the  invasion  of  roses,  violets,  carnations,  with 
which  he  stormed  her  nature.  They  fed  her  love, 
they  soothed  her  heart,  they  stole  with  their  wines  on 
her  senses,  the  while  she  was  seeking  to  banish  them 
all,  together  with  himself. 

Her  world  was  crabbed,  narrow,  cold.  She  was 
often  ill-fed,  and  neglected  by  those  whose  affairs 
were  clogged  with  pleasures.  She  was  full  of  life, 
youth,  love  of  the  beautiful.  She  was  wearied  to 
death  of  work,  self-denial,  penurious  pinching — the 
hard,  bitter  struggle  of  a  woman  unattached. 

She  longed  for  the  shelter  of  love  and  protection 
— the  balm  of  caresses — the  partnership  and  holy 
joys  that  only  the  home  may  provide.  It  seemed  at 

175 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

times  as  if  she  would  gladly  sacrifice  even  Heaven 
itself  for  one  sweet  moment  of  surrender  to  the  joy 
of  dropping  it  all  for  once,  and  lying  like  a  child  on 
Adam's  breast — in  the  harbor  of  his  love. 

She  fought  on,  doggedly.  She  still  declared  she 
did  not  and  could  not  love  him.  She  snatched  her 
hands  from  his  kisses  till  they  all  but  rebelled,  so 
famishing  were  they  for  caresses.  She  could  not,  or 
did  not,  continue  equally  stubborn  concerning  his 
repeated  invitations  to  dinner  with  him  alone.  At 
the  public  hotels  and  restaurants,  she  argued  to  her- 
self, there  was  almost  an  element  of  safety.  He 
must  always  behave  in  such  a  place,  both  as  to  actions 
and  speech.  But  while  they  dined  thus  often  to- 
gether, she  sought  even  refuge  from  this. 

She  brushed  up  her  social  acquaintances.  She 
endeavored  to  enlarge  her  circle.  With  Babe  as  a 
bright,  refreshing  discovery,  she  succeeded  in  se- 
curing more  numerous  invitations.  Together  they 
called  at  many  homes  to  which  even  Adam,  with  his 
money  and  all,  could  not  have  obtained  admission. 
Old  Mrs.  Van  Pelt,  in  her  solemn  glory  of  Fifth- 
avenue  isolation,  not  only  conceived  a  species  of 
infatuation  for  Babe,  at  this  time,  but  finally,  in  a 
moment  when  Beatrice  felt  desperation  winning  in 
her  struggle  with  herself,  proposed  an  unexpected 
salvation. 

She  was  planning  a  trip  to  Lakewood;  she  hated 
to  go  alone.  She  begged  both  Babe  and  Beatrice 
to  accompany  her  there  as  her  guests,  for  a  stay  of 

176 


A  Respite 

perhaps  two  weeks.  Babe,  like  the  loyal  little  soul 
she  was,  far  more  concerned  with  Adam's  wretched 
situation  than  anyone  knew,  declined.  Her  own  af- 
fairs with  Paul  and  Frona  Abbot  had  been  sadly 
neglected,  so  far  as  Adam  was  concerned,  but  that 
was  an  inconsidered  trifle. 

Beatrice,  glad  of  a  respite  in  her  fight,  agreed  to 
her  friend's  proposal.  She  fled  from  Adam  one  day 
sooner  than  her  programme  had  led  him  to  expect. 
His  loneliness  then  was  incredibly  poignant,  despite 
every  effort  he  could  make.  He  plunged  with  Babe 
into  what  he  termed  the  "  social  surf,"  with  scarcely 
an  evening  of  rest.  Acquaintances  half  forgotten 
were  renewed;  lost  arts  were  resurrected.  They  went 
to  teas,  cotillions,  and  receptions.  They  dined  with 
friends  and  invited  sets  of  the  younger  crowd  to 
theater  parties  and  suppers. 

Paul  was  not  forgotten.  He  was  roused  to  a 
keener  interest  in  Babe,  while  Frona  doubled  her 
activities.  Adam's  tireless  exertions  were  almost 
wholly  undertaken  in  Babe's  behalf.  He  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  "  give  her  a  run  for  her  money,"  and 
achieved  results  by  wholesale.  She  met  swains  in 
droves,  had  a  gorgeous  time  of  restlessness,  and  was 
wearied  to  the  bone. 

Mae  had  written  twice,  on  picture-postals.  She 
said  she  was  much  improved.  Beatrice  sent  a  tiny 
note  to  Babe — and  Adam  wrote 'her  at  once.  His  let- 
ter was  dated  from  his  office.  It  chided  her  gently 
for  what  she  had  done  in  escaping  without  a  good-by. 

177 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

It  chided  again  for  her  silence  towards  himself.  His 
heart  spilled  love  in  all  he  wrote — the  sort  of  love 
for  which  she  fondly  yearned. 

Two  days  later  she  answered.  She  told  him  she 
was  resting — and  trying  to  forget.  She  gave  an 
account  of  the  daily  life,  that  must  pall  so  soon  on 
anyone  seriously  living.  Then  he  came  upon  a 
little  bit  that  shamed  his  conscience — and  thrilled 
him. 

**  I  miss  you,  Adam,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  for  I 
neither  wish  nor  intend  to  permit  myself  to  succumb 
to  the  folly  of  your  love.  It  is  a  beautiful  thing — 
such  love  as  you  declare,  and  perhaps  if  my  heart 
had  never  been  so  deeply  hurt — if  it  had  not  been 
deadened  to  a  hopeless  numbness — I  might  even  be 
mad  enough  to  accept  it — as  you  think  you  wish  me 
to  do.  But  please  do  not  write  like  this  again.  It 
would  bring  only  pain  and  suffering  to  us  both  were 
I  to  listen  to  all  that  you  say.  You  could  not 
wish  it,  in  wisdom.  You  are  an  honest,  right- 
minded  man.  All  women  love  to  be  loved — if  that 
answers  your  reiterated  question — but  I  want  your 
friendship  more.  It  worries  me  greatly  when  I  think 
of  what  you  are  doing — what  you  say  when  we  meet 
— what  you  write  in  your  letter.  Despite  what  may 
have  been  promised  us  once,  despite  the  perhaps 
deplorable  condition  of  affairs  in  your  life — despite 
my  own  insignificant  troubles — we  are  not  free  to  ac- 
cept things  thus  belated. 

"Your  wife  will  presently  return.  I  wish  her  to 
178 


A  Respite 

find  you  precisely  as  you  were  before  our  accidental 
meeting — the  splendid  friend,  the  loyal  husband — 
the  unspoiled  Adam  I  have  always  known. 

"  Mrs.  Van  Pelt  is  thinking  seriously  of  making 
another  trip  abroad — provided,  she  says,  she  can  get 
me  to  consent  to  go  as  her  companion.  I  am  tempted 
— and  yet — she  is  old  and  queer,  with  all  her  lovable 
characteristics.  Perhaps  we  should  never  cease  lov- 
ing to  serve — but,  alas,  I  fear  we  do.  Couldn't  you 
find  me  a  millionaire  and  cage  him,  against  ray 
return  ? 

"  I  went  for  a  walk  in  the  Pines  to-day — and  let 
you  come  along.  You  behave  very  creditably  in  such 
conditions.  It  was  just  a  formal,  friendly  little 
walk  that  did  not  frighten  me  at  all.  Just  friend- 
ship, dear  Adam,  is  best.  When  I  have  to  return  to 
my  studio,  please  think  of  that,  for  the  sake  of  all 
concerned." 


179 


CHAPTER  XIV 

CONCERNING   CHIVALRY 

THE  tenth  long  day  of  Adam's  loneliness  had 
passed,  with  Beatrice  still  away.  He  had  written 
again — and  love  once  more  had  crept  between  the 
lines.  He  had  fought  with  himself  and  this  madness 
of  his  heart  till  conscience  and  nature  were  sore. 
He  had  sought  relief  in  entertaining  Babe,  only  to 
encounter  irritations  everywhere,  in  reminders  of 
Mae's  peculiar  habits. 

Events  and  waves  of  experience,  like  fishes,  move 
in  shoals.  It  seemed  as  if  a  dozen  of  Adam's  old- 
time  friends  or  acquaintances  reappeared  in  his  life 
at  this  particular  juncture,  solely  for  the  purpose 
of  exposing  to  his  view  their  cancers  of  domestic 
infelicity.  Within  a  week  he  met  no  less  than  half 
a  dozen  concrete  instances  of  troubles  akin  to  his 
own.  Childlessness  and  selfishness  of  "  well-mean- 
ing "  wives  he  found  appallingly  prevalent.  It  be- 
gan to  arouse  an  ire  in  his  veins  that  went  deeper 
than  personal  wrongs. 

To  add  to  his  irritated  state  of  mind,  Mae  wrote, 
in  the  midst  of  his  struggles,  to  say  that  her  doctor, 
having  followed  her  to  Florida — largely  in  response 

180 


Concerning  Chivalry 

to  the  calls  of  delicate  patients  there  ensconced- — 
had  suggested  an  absolute  change.  It  involved  no 
less  than  a  year  abroad,  at  a  spring  of  exceptional 
renown.  She  should  therefore  remain  to  the  end  of 
her  month,  gaining  strength  and  courage  for  the 
venture,  when  the  trip  back  home  would  be  managed 
with  exceptional  expedition,  that  preparations  for 
her  longer  excursion  might  be  hastened  as  rapidly  as 
possible. 

Babe,  it  was  suggested,  would  better  return  to  the 
West — but  not,  of  course,  until  her  aunt  should  see 
her  once  again.  The  advisability  of  maintaining  the 
apartments,  entailing  the  needless  expense  of  serv- 
ants and  the  like,  was  dubious.  That  point,  however, 
could  be  settled  later  on. 

The  heat  engendered  in  Adam's  system  by  this 
development  had  been  two  days  cooled  when  his 
friend  Will  Sloane  appeared  from  Washington,  eager 
with  coming  success. 

He  came  upon  Adam  alone  in  the  house,  and  was 
glad  to  sit  down  for  a  smoke.  If  something  of 
Adam's  grimness  of  humor  was  impressed  upon  his 
understanding,  he  felt  it  was  nothing  essentially  new. 
Their  meeting  was  cordial  to  the  last  degree.  Adam 
warmed  almost  by  magic  to  his  old,  hospitable  man- 
ner and  a  flattering  interest  in  Will's  affairs  and 
hopes  for  his  friend's  career. 

It  was  not  until  Will  had  talked  himself  out,  on 
topics  of  business,  heart-hopes  deferred,  and  inten- 
tions of  definite  maneuvers  at  last  impending,  that 

181 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

Adam  assumed  the  floor.  It  was  not  a  moment  ad- 
mirably chosen  to  analyze  domestic  hazards,  prophesy 
disasters,  and  flagellate  existing  institutions,  but 
heats  were  in  Adam  that  had  to  burst  through  in  the 
form  of  words  or  consume  his  heart  and  soul. 

"  Will,"  he  said,  as  he  rose  at  last  and  began  to 
pace  the  floor,  "  there  is  something  all  wrong  in  the 
scheme  of  things  between  many  of  the  men  and 
women  of  America.  I  might  say  that  even  nation- 
ally we  are  rushing  pell  mell  to  ruin — largely 
through  prosperity,  luxury,  indulgence,  and  all  their 
attendant  frivolities,  as  the  ancients  did  before  us. 
What  with  men  become  fools,  and  wives  and  daugh- 
ters almost  vampires  in  their  endless  selfishness,  we 
are  tearing  down  unit  after  unit  of  family  peace 
and  functioning,  to  swell  the  chaos  of  divorces,  de- 
clining marriages,  and  immorality." 

"  Oh,  dear  me,"  said  Will,  with  a  smile,  "  is  it  quite 
as  bad  as  that  ?  " 

"  It  could  hardly  be  worse,"  Adam  told  him 
gravely.  "  The  divorce  mills  uphold  my  contention. 
They  are  not  the  root,  but  the  flower  of  the  evil — 
not  the  cause,  but  effect  of  wrong  conditions.  I 
believe  in  some  divorce — and  re-marriage — as  a 
scheme  preservative  of  decency.  I  am  not  attack- 
ing that.  It's  the  utterly  despicable  cowardice  of 
the  American  man,  submitting  to  the  equally  de- 
spicable tyranny  of  his  wife — often  a  tyranny  of  her 
alleged  physical  weakness — or  a  tyranny  of  her 
selfish  indulgence — that  arouses  my  indignation. 

182 


Concerning  Chivalry 

"  Our  women  rule — a  reversal  of  every  natural, 
right-being  law.  We  make  them  queens,  and  are 
proud  to  submit  to  their  government — which 
proceeds  to  destroy  both  them  and  us.  We  fear  to 
oppose  them  in  the  smallest  things — but  what  is  the 
thing  we  fear?  We  would  face  a  tiger,  a  savage, 
disease,  or  even  a  firing  line  of  battle.  We  have  no 
fear  that  our  women  will  rend  us,  maim  us,  or  even 
hold  us  up  to  ridicule  and  disgrace.  Yet  we  have  no 
courage  to  say  to  their  follies,  their  extravagance, 
their  over-indulgence  of  themselves — *  this  shall  no 
longer  be.  Hereafter  I  propose  to  run  my  house,  to 
be  the  head  thereof,  and  to  live  as  nature  ordained.' 
We  haven't  the  courage  to  insist  on  being  fathers, 
to  insist  on  our  women's  help  in  our  lives  and  homes. 
We  haven't  the  courage  to  deny  them  harmful 
things.  If  they  cry,  we  dissolve  in  their  tears.  We 
have  taught  them  such  a  selfishness  as  the  world 
never  saw  in  its  women !  " 

Will  ventured  to  say :  "  I've  heard  it  called  our 
American  chivalry — and  praised  throughout  the 
world." 

"  Yes,  they  call  it  chivalry — the  boast  of  America, 
the  despair  of  Europe ! "  Adam  admitted  readily. 
"  Our  men  are  noted  for  this  quality — and  our  courts 
are  equally  famed  for  their  floods  of  divorce!  We 
have  all  declared  our  women  shall  not  work,  but  shall 
travel,  dress,  have  educations,  independence,  live  on 
chocolates,  flock  to  the  matinees — gorge  themselves 
by  day  and  night  on  enjoyment.  Our  wives  expect 

183 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

to  have  no  children.  Our  daughters  are  seeking 
'  good  times.'  And  we,  the  chivalrous  American  men, 
in  our  fatuous  self-satisfaction — our  pride  in  our 
ability  to  give  the  women  what  they  ask,  are  asinine 
slaves  of  the  yoke! 

"  We  call  it  chivalry.  It's  a  fool,  destructive 
chivalry  that  ruins  our  families,  invites  dishonor  to 
the  threshold,  and  undermines  our  very  nation.  Men 
steal  to  spare  their  women  work — they  graft  to  heap 
them  with  gifts  and  endless  indulgencies.  And  what 
do  they  get  in  return? 

"  No  woman  on  earth  expects  to  go  to  a  shop  and 
take  what  she  wants  for  nothing.  She  expects  to 
pay  a  reasonable  price  for  everything  she  gets.  She 
pays  the  doctor  and  dentist,  the  grocer,  the  priest — 
for  all  have  earned  their  fee.  The  only  being  in  the 
world  the  spoiled  American  wife  does  not  expect  to 
pay  for  services  rendered,  for  luxuries  furnished, 
for  ease  secured,  and  whims  immediately  gratified,  is 
her  easy-mark  dolt  of  a  husband.  She  takes,  aye, 
demands  the  all  he  can  give — and  gives  less  than 
nothing  in  return.  It  is  she  who  wears  the  jewels 
and  furs,  she  who  lives  at  the  play,  she  who  flits  to 
the  shore  while  he  commutes,  she  who  affords  to  go 
abroad,  she  who  spends  while  he  is  making — and 
makes  herself  weak  in  the  process.  And  what,  I 
repeat,  does  she  even  think  she  gives  him  in  return?  " 

Will  was  horrified.  "  But,  my  dear  fellow,  many 
of  them  give  their  husbands  everything  they  can. 
If  it  isn't  domestic  service,  it  may  be  intellectual 

184 


Concerning  Chivalry 

companionship — or  cause  for  pride  and  satisfac- 
tion." 

"  Cause  for  pride — and  intellectual  companion- 
ship !  "  said  Adam,  smiling  mirthlessly.  "  Why  not 
say  they  permit  their  husbands  to  see  them  once  in 
a  while?  Does  she  give  him  motherhood,  wifehood, 
the  old-fashioned  home — a  helpmate,  aid  and  counsel 
— work  for  work — love  for  love — sacrifice  for  sacri- 
fice— generosity  for  generosity?  Not  she!  She,  too, 
is  proud  of  her  husband's  chivalry.  She  wants  more 
of  it  every  day.  She  has  come  to  regard  herself  as 
a  queen.  She  adores  herself  as  something  of  glory 
and  charm.  Chivalry? — it's  ruin — it's  crass  do- 
mestic crime — it's  a  blasphemous  farce  and  sacrilege 
flaunted  in  the  face  of  Creating  God ! " 

"  That's  pretty  strong  language,"  Will  dared  as- 
sert. "  I  fail  to  see  how  you'll  support  it." 

"  It  supports  itself — it  proves  itstelf  about  us 
every  day.  Is  the  present  generation  of  women  to 
be  compared  for  a  moment  with  the  mothers  that 
brought  them  into  being — in  point  of  usefulness  to 
the  world  they  inhabit — the  nation  of  which  they  are 
a  part?  What  sort  of  citizens  are  our  society  and 
near-society  women  of  the  day?  In  the  past  we  had 
children  in  the  families :  to-day  we  have  terriers  and 
nervous  prostration.  Fancy  the  annual  Dog  Show 
giving  place  to  a  show  of  society  women's  babies ! 
When  they  do  have  a  child  by  some  mischance,  it  is 
relegated  to  the  care  of  a  nurse,  while  the  poodle 
is  made  the  pet.  My  own  mother  had  a  family  of 

185 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

seven.  She  has  done  the  work  of  twenty  of  the 
women  of  to-day — housework,  social  work,  world- 
work — always  in  happiness  and  health.  That's  one 
of  the  points  I  wish  to  make — that  work  is  a  joyous, 
healthful  thing.  The  carpenter,  the  blacksmith,  and 
the  housewife  usually  sing  and  whistle  at  their  labor 
— and  are  well !  It  isn't  as  if  these  spoiled  American 
women  were  made  any  happier  -or  stronger  by  im- 
munity from  labor  and  freedom  from  cares  of  chil- 
dren and  the  house.  They  are  merely  made  weak 
and  morbid.  The  muscles  will  fail  that  are  neglected. 
The  senseless  round  of  amusements  palls.  The  idle 
have  time  to  think  too  much  and  dwell  upon  them- 
selves. The  occupied  mind  is  the  healthy,  normal 
mind — the  mind  that  brings  happiness  and  joy.  We 
are  striving  to  giv^  our  women  happiness — and  we 
overlook  the  path.  We  educate  our  wives  and 
daughters  in  .selfishness — and  destroy  both  them  and 
ourselves. 

"  We  fail  to  realize  the  fact  that  a  seeming  bru- 
tality that  drove  them  back  to  old-time  methods, 
families,  and  homes  would  be  the  noblest  chivalry  of 
which  our  lives  are  capable.  A  wife  should  not  only 
"be  a  sweetheart  for  her  mate,  she  should  be  a  house- 
heart  also,  and  the  mother-heart  of  all  his  tribe.  I 
rise  to  a  championship  of  motherhood — the  bearing  of 
children — the  proper,  right  function  of  our  unions !  " 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Will,  "  I  think  you  exaggerate 
conditions.  There  are  very  few  marriages,  after  all, 
as  barren  as  you  would  suggest." 

186 


Concerning  Chivalry 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  maintain  it's  a  growing 
American  evil,"  Adam  answered.  "  There  is  a  very 
great  deal  of  this  sort  of  thing  prevailing — an  alarm- 
ing quantity.  Every  tendency  is  towards  more  in- 
dependence for  the  women — a  destructive,  illogical, 
unnatural  independence.  I  have  met  a  dozen  in- 
stances of  farcical  matings  in  a  week — where  child- 
less wives  are  household  monarchs,  through  the 
tyranny  of  pleaded  weaknesses — the  husbands  being 
mere  chivalrous  cowards. 

"  One  of  my  friends  can't  smoke  in  his  house,  or 
drink  a  glass  of  beer.  Another  has  boarded  for  the 
past  ten  years,  till  he  loathes  the  sight  of  the  house 
he  makes  his  home.  His  wife  pleads  a  physical  weak- 
ness— a  negligible  affection — and  cuts  out  the  home, 
and  cuts  out  his  friends  absolutely.  He  and  I  were 
boys  together.  He  cannot  ask  me  there,  or  come 
with  his  wife  to  me,  so  far  does  she  carry  her 
tyranny — to  which  he  weakly  submits.  Another, 
just  returned  from  Boston,  has  been  driven  at  last 
to  commit  a  statutory  crime  to  free  himself  from 
married  hell. 

"  A  few  nights  ago  I  met  a  pretty  little  woman, 
living  here  in  New  York  to  train  her  voice.  She 
has  been  here  now  for  eighteen  months.  Her  hus- 
band is  out  in  Boise,  Idaho,  toiling  and  sending  her 
the  money.  She  goes  about  with  two  confessed 
beaus.  I  asked  her  about  her  husband.  She  said, 
'  Oh,  he's  the  grandest  thing !  He  loves  me  half  to 
death ! '  When  I  asked  what  he  was  getting  she 

187 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

replied  in  astonishment,  '  Why,  I  bear  his  name !  He 
can  tell  his  friends  at  any  time  that's  his  own  little 
wife,  in  New  York.' 

"  A  similar  case  I  knew  in  Nevada.  A  railway 
clerk  had  a  pretty  wife  who  was  sure  she  had  a  voice. 
He  dressed  like  a  tramp,  for  five  long  years,  to  keep 
her  in  Italy,  studying  music.  She  was  still  there — 
spending  money — at  last  accounts. 

"  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  understand  why  the 
men  continue  to  foot  the  bills,  or  how  the  women  can 
be  so  shamelessly  selfish.  They  can  take  and  take 
and  take,  as  if  it  were  the  merest  right  in  the  world, 
and  never  think  of  giving  in  return.  I  can't  com- 
prehend the  utter  lack  of  understanding  in  so  many 
human  beings.  Why  can't  they  see  the  ruin  ahead, 
inevitable  in  such  a  one-sided  farce?  Such  dozens 
of  men  are  driven  to  kindlier  women  for  the  com- 
forts denied  them  by  their  wives.  Why,  in  heaven's 
name,  is  that  fact  so  frequently  ignored  or  over- 
looked? I  tell  you  it's  ruin — ruin  for  the  wives, 
ruin  for  the  homes — ruin  at  last  for  the  nation !  " 

Will  said,  mildly :  "  Weren't  some  of  the  women 
of  the  past  generations  practically  slaves?  Didn't 
some  of  them  work  themselves  to  death,  rearing 
broods  and  breaking  the  wilderness  ?  " 

"  They  did,"  said  Adam.  "  They  toiled  beside  the 
men,  became  old  before  their  time,  and  were  hope- 
lessly harnessed  to  hardships.  There  is  such  a  thing 
as  too  much  work  for  man  or  woman — a  deadening 
labor  that  starves  the  mental  development — dries  up 

188 


Concerning  Chivalry 

the  fountains  of  ambition,  shrivels  the  hope  in  the 
heart. 

"  Now-a-days,  conditions  have  altered.  Neither 
man  nor  woman  needs  to  work  to-day  as  our  fore- 
fathers worked  in  the  past.  But,  at  least,  what  work 
there  is  to  do  should  be  shared  by  the  partners  in 
the  task!  The  men  should  not  assume  it  all,  and 
the  women  assume  all  the  leisure — that's  all  I  contend 
— that  and  that  families  of  children  should  result 
from  every  rightful  union — not  only  because  of  Na- 
ture's intention  and  God's  decree,  but  also  for  the 
simple,  common-sense  reason  that  they  make  for  the 
nearest  approach  to  happiness  that  man  on  the  earth 
can  achieve. 

"  And  when  it  comes  to  a  final  comparison  of  lives, 
I  still  assert  that  those  women  of  the  past,  slaving 
a  whole  life  through,  if  you  like,  were  in  many  re- 
spects far  more  genuinely  happy  than  thousands 
of  our  pampered,  sickened  darlings  of  the  day,  and 
a  thousand  times  more  useful  to  the  nation. 

"  Life  was  apparently  intended  to  be  serious — 
something  more  than  a  bauble  for  our  mere 
ephemeral  entertainment.  And  the  useless,  butter- 
fly women  of  the  hour  will  not  survive.  Their  plan 
will  destroy  themselves.  Not  only  will  they  leave  no 
race,  but  one  by  one  they  go  the  way  of  weaklings, 
made  by  themselves  unfit  for  survival  in  a  world  of 
stern  utilities,  and  so  will  be  by  nature  pushed  across 
the  brink,  to  perish  as  needless  obstructions  to  the 
plan  that  knows  no  sense  of  chivalry. 

189 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

"  I  blame  the  men  who  are  not  only  frequently 
guilty  of  shirking  parenthood,  but  are  no  longer 
heads  of  their  household,  and  spoil  and  defunctionize 
their  mates.  I  blame  the  women  for  their  shameless 
selfishness,  their  criminal  avoidance  of  motherhood, 
and  their  stupid  pride  in  their  husbands'  crime  of 
over-generosity.  Lastly,  I  blame  the  frivolous  hour 
that  makes  of  the  whole  American  nation  a  picnic 
crowd,  fired  primarily  with  lust  for  money  to  buy 
themselves  peanuts  all  day  long,  and  ride  on  the 
merry-go-round  all  their  lives." 

His  talk,  if  it  did  no  good  to  Will,  had  fortified 
his  own  resolutions.  He  was  waging  a  war  within 
himself  against  all  the  impulses  of  his  nature.  He 
needed  help  from  all  directions.  He  stood  where  a 
steep  hill  loomed  before  his  path  and  an  easy  slope 
descended  to  the  valley.  The  hill  was  rocks,  a  bar- 
ren thing  of  stark  unloveliness.  The  slope  was  of 
grass,  with  flowers  by  the  way,  and  song  of  birds  be- 
low. Had  Mae  been  at  home  to  meet  his  present 
mood  the  hill  would  have  found  him  climbing,  though 
hands  and  heart  should  bleed.  But  instead  he  re- 
ceived her  request  next  day  to  arrange  for  her  state- 
room on  the  steamer. 

Then  Beatrice  came  home. 


190 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  LURE  OF  FIEE 

NEITHER  Adam  nor  Babe  was  notified  when 
Beatrice  returned — yet  Adam  knew. 

He  had  feared  some  such  intentional  neglect.  He 
knew  that  Beatrice,  as  well  as  himself,  was  struggling 
against  the  on-coming  fate  that  threatened  to  fuse 
their  lives  together — not  in  the  way  of  man's  small 
laws,  but  by  Nature's  inexorable  edict. 

And  if  he  did  not  love  man's  law,  at  least  he  gave 
it  his  respect,  support,  and  sanction.  A  still,  per- 
sistent, though  wavering  adherence  to  the  law  of 
man  remained  subconsciously  to  aid  him  in  his  fight, 
even  when  rebellion  was  strongest  upon  him.  But 
the  law  of  the  blood  was  clamorously  present  every 
hour. 

Day  after  day  this  law  had  driven  him,  despite 
his  enfeebling  protest,  to  the  street  where  Beatrice 
lived.  He  had  merely  passed,  on  the  way  to  his  home, 
by  a  route  new-created  for  the  purpose.  But  pass- 
ing thus  he  had  daily  observed  the  drawn-down 
shades  of  the  windows — and  knew  she  was  still  away. 

On  a  bright  and  particularly  balmy  Thursday 
191 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

afternoon  it  was  that  he  found  the  shades  were  lifted. 
Beatrice  had  come  at  twelve  and  was  letting  in  the 
sun. 

With  his  heart  fairly  pealing  its  resonant  joy, 
Adam  sped  swiftly  to  a  florist's.  He  knew  the  near- 
est shop.  It  was  barely  after  five  o'clock  when  he 
rang  the  studio  bell. 

Beatrice,  when  she  found  him  there,  was  thor- 
oughly taken  by  surprise — and  shaken  by  heart  ex- 
ultation. It  could  not  be  helped — she  was  starving — 
starving  for  love  and  companionship — starving  for 
home — for  some  fond  heart  to  be  glad  she  was  once 
more  here.  She  had  come  from  at  least  a  sort  of 
ease,  a  sort  of  comfort  and  companionship.  She 
had  found  her  studio  dusty,  dark,  forbidding.  Not 
a  soul  had  been  down  at  boat  or  train  to  greet  her 
with  a  smile.  The  servants  had  come  for  Mrs.  Van 
Pelt  and  had  whisked  her  away  to  her  mansion. 
And  here,  where  so  much  of  her  loneliness  had  been 
passed,  the  same  old  mockeries  of  half-paid  toil,  day 
and  night  solitudes  and  meager  meals — prepared 
and  eaten  alone  in  guestless  silence — had  been  on  the 
threshold  to  supply  her  only  welcome. 

She  could  not,  for  the  life  of  her,  have  quelled  the 
light  of  gladness  in  her  eyes.  It  leaped  spon- 
taneously to  meet  the  love  that  beamed  in  Adam's 
gaze. 

"  Oh,  Adam ! "  she  cried  in  irrepressible  happiness. 
"  Why,  how  in  the  world  did  you  know  that  I  had 
come?  " 

192 


The  Lure  of  Fire 

"  Know  it  ? "  said  Adam,  stepping  briskly  in. 
"  My  heart  got  a  wireless,  of  course."  He  tossed  his 
tied-up  roses  to  the  couch  and  caught  up  both  of 
her  hands.  "  Beatrice,  Beatrice,  how  could  you 
neglect  me  as  you  have  ?  "  he  added  fervently.  "  I've 
missed  you  more  than  I'd  miss  the  world,  if  it  sud- 
denly dropped  away  and  left  me.  You  might  have 
sent  me  just  a  word.  I've  been  miserable.  I've 
wandered  around  like  a  soul  lost  out  of  Paradise — 
to  wander  back  to  this  street  repeatedly,  as  if  it  were 
the  azure  gate — only  to  find  it  always  barred.  But 
now  that  you're  back  you'll  have  to  make  up  for  all 
the  time  I've  lost ! "  He  kissed  both  her  hands,  on 
the  backs,  in  the  palms,  and  held  them  in  rapture  on 
his  face. 

She  could  not,  for  a  moment,  take  them  home. 

"  There  now,  behave  like  a  rational  being,  or  I'll 
send  you  right  away,"  she  said  to  him  then,  as  firmly 
as  she  might,  withdrawing  her  hands  and  crossing 
to  the  couch.  "  Anyone  would  think  you  were  a 
cannibal.  What  have  you  brought  here  to-day?  " 

She  began  to  unfasten  the  parcel. 

"  Oh,  nothing — a  few  bits  of  cacti,  some  brambles 
and  squash  vines,"  he  answered  gayly.  *'  But  I  cer- 
tainly brought  a  heart  clean  full  of " 

"  Roses !  "  she  interrupted.  "  And  I  simply  can't 
scold  you  to-day.  This  horrid  old  place  did  seem 
so  utterly  cheerless  when  I  came !  "  She  buried  her 
face  in  the  fragrant  messengers  from  Eden  and 
folded  them  all  to  her  breast. 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

Adam  came  close,  put  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder, 
and  bent  to  partake  of  the  sensuous  wine  exhaled  by 
the  petals  of  red. 

"  And  I  have  been  cheerless,  too,"  he  said.  "  Cheer- 
less for  this — cheerless  for  everything  joyous  and 
sweet — cheerless  for  you — my  comrade." 

For  the  half  of  a  second  she  closed  her  eyes  and 
swayed  almost  against  him.  The  spell  of  their  love 
was  like  an  opium,  blotting  out  all  save  dreams,  de- 
lights, and  mad,  inconsequent  promptings  of  the 
heart.  It  would  have  been  so  ineffably  rapturous, 
just  for  this  once  to  cease  her  fight,  resign  her 
strength,  and  surrender  to  the  longings  of  her  nature. 

But  once  again  she  conquered. 

"  Adam,"  she  said,  as  she  pushed  him  away,  to 
look  him  over  keenly,  "  you  haven't  lost  a  grain  of 
flesh.  You  haven't  missed  a  meal,  and  you  know  it. 
You're  as  plump  and  well-groomed  as  a  partridge. 
You  look  shamelessly  well  and  happy."  She  started 
for  a  vase. 

"  Of  course  I  look  well  and  happy  now"  he  an- 
swered, following  where  she  went.  "  If  you  could 
have  seen  me  during  the  time  that  I  couldn't  see 
you — well,  you  wouldn't  have  seen  but  a  shadow." 

She  was  placing  the  roses  in  the  vase  with  the  deft- 
ness of  unerring  taste. 

"  A  shadow  ?  Do  you  think  I  might  have  seen 
through  you,  Adam,  even  better  than  I  do  right 
now?" 

"  If  you  see  right  through  me,"  he  answered,  "  you 
194 


The  Lure  of  Fire 

see  how  much  I  love  you,  Beatrice,"  and  he  kissed 
her  hand  as  it  came  for  a  second  near  his  face. 

The  leap  in  her  heart  was  not  to  be  suppressed, 
but  her  self-control  was  re-established. 

She  asked  him:     "  How  is  your  wife?  " 

A  scowl  came  momentarily  to  cloud  his  brow. 

"  She  tells  me  she's  able  to  sit  up  and  take  a  trip 
abroad." 

"Then  she's  home?" 

"  Only  in  the  spirit.  She  makes  her  suggestions 
by  letter." 

The  element  of  pity  for  the  man  she  knew  had  tried 
his  very  best  was  added  to  other  emotions  that 
Beatrice  jould  not  withhold  from  her  heart  in  its 
contemplation  of  Adam.  And  with  love  and  pity  thus 
in  possession  of  her  being,  she  could  not  avoid  a 
certain  thrill,  a  frightening  qualm,  and  a  dart  of 
alarm  that  came  like  a  human  trinity  at  his  mention 
of  Mae's  latest  plans.  With  Mae  even  present  in 
the  town — neglectful  and  thoughtless  of  her  wife- 
hood — the  matter  had  been  sufficiently  perilous;  if 
ever  she  went  abroad  like  this 

She  dared  not  trust  herself  to  think.  To-day  at 
least  she  must  have  her  little  hour — her  something  of 
happiness,  snatched  from  the  endless  desolation 
reaching  backward  and  forward  from  her  vision. 

If  she  felt  that  perhaps  her  duty  lay  in  advising 
Adam  what  to  do  by  way  of  reforming  his  home,  she 
was  sickened  by  doubts  and  sickened  again  by 
thoughts  of  the  merciless  irony  of  such  a  situation — 

195 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

she,  who  had  loved  this  man  so  long,  to  perform  such 
a  role  for  Mae.  It  was  not  to  be  done  this  after- 
noon. To-morrow,  perhaps,  she  would  steady  down 
to  acceptance  of  all  the  old  round.  She  might  then 
attempt,  in  her  feeble  way,  to  stem  Mrs.  Croswell's 
folly.  At  best  her  woman's  wisdom  provided  noth- 
ing definite  by  which  to  right  the  wrongs.  And  the 
subject  was  not  to  be  suffered  now  to  intrude  its  ugly 
form  between  the  roses  and  herself. 

"  And  how  is  Babe?  "  she  asked  him  quietly,  hold- 
ing up  the  vase.  "  Has  she  said  that  she  missed 
me  at  all?" 

"  Not  over  fifteen  times,"  he  told  her  boyishly, 
regaining  his  smile  as  Mae  once  more  sank  from 
contemplation.  "  I  know  when  you  let  her  know 
you're  here  she'll  run  me  out  of  many  a  nice  little 
time  with  you  alone." 

"  Don't  be  silly,"  she  said.  "  Here,  take  this  vase 
and  fill  it  with  water  from  the  faucet.  You  might 
as  well  accept  the  situation  first  as  last  that  to-day 
is  all  the  time  you're  going  to  get  in  this  studio,  like 
this.  Babe  will  bring  Emily  every  day,  and  every- 
thing but  work  will  be  forgotten." 

Adam  took  the  vase  from  her  hand  and  went  be- 
hind the  screen.  "  Well,  we  won't  cross  to-morrow 
till  we  come  to  it,  Beatrice,"  he  said.  "  Meantime, 
where  do  we  dine  to-night — just  you  and  I  together?  " 

He  emerged  from  behind  the  screen,  with  a  strong 
light  thrown  upon  half  of  his  face  while  the  rest 
was  all  in  shadow. 

196 


The  Lure  of  Fire 

"  Stand  still,  just  a  moment,"  Beatrice  com- 
manded, gazing  on  him  earnestly.  "  I  believe  I'd  like 
a  picture  of  you,  Adam,  just  as  you  are  right 
now." 

"  I'll  have  one  made  to-morrow,"  he  answered,  once 
more  moving  forward  to  the  stand.  "  Meantime,  I'll 
bring  you  the  best  I've  got  while  you're  still  in  the 
mood  to  accept  it." 

She  began  to  dust  the  table  and  its  paraphernalia 
— a  task  that  Adam's  unexpected  comma-  had  in- 
terrupted. 

"  I  haven't  said  that  I'll  accept  it." 

"  You  also  neglected  to  reply  concerning  our  din- 
ner," he  reminded  her,  turning  to  come  where  she 
was.  "  Where  and  what  time  shall  it  be?  " 

"  If  I  had  the  least  little  thing  in  the  house " 

she  started. 

"  But  you  haven't,"  he  interrupted,  putting  both 
hands  upon  her  shoulders  and  holding  her  fondly 
thus  in  view.  "  So  that's  settled.  And  I'll  bet  you're 
hungry." 

"  I'm  both  hungry  and  tired,"  she  admitted,  re- 
luctantly moving  away.  "  It  doesn't  much  matter 
where  we  go,  but  I'm  coming  home  early,  and  you, 
Adam  dear,  will  leave  me  downstairs  at  the  entrance 
door  and  spend  all  your  evening  with  Babe." 

Not  often  her  tongue  was  betrayed  like  this  to 
speeches  that  rocked  him  with  pleasure.  And  never 
yet  had  he  dared  presume  too  far  upon  the  tender- 
ness, for  fear  of  giving  it  affright.  Nevertheless, 

197 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

in  moments  such  as  this  he  rose  through  doubts,  and 
chills  and  clouds  to  golden  lights  of  the  sun.  His 
being  was  charged  with  a  mighty  love  that  nothing 
short  of  storm  and  song,  sea-tumult,  flood-swirl,  and 
eagle's  pinioning  could  have  faintly  bodied  in  ex- 
pression. In  such  a  moment  there  was  less  than  a 
vestige  of  the  struggle  remaining — the  struggle  of 
self  against  self.  Not  even  a  far-off  echo  of  his 
wife  came  feebly  to  his  senses.  He  was  helpless — 
and  wildly  happy. 

"  It  makes  me  ache  to  have  you  wearied,  but  your 
hunger  is  my  friend,"  he  told  her  earnestly.  "  Some 
day  couldn't  I  bring  up  a  good  thick  steak,  some 
oysters  on  the  shell,  and  some  fruit  and  some  camem- 
bert  cheese,  and  you  and  I  have  a  cozy  little  home- 
made banquet,  like  genuine  comrades?  " 

"  With  a  nice  little  endive  salad?  " 

"Yes!" 

"  And  sweet  potatoes,  candied  ?  " 

"You  bet!" 

"  And  puree  of  tomato,  and  creamed  spinach,  and 
something  for  dessert?  " 

"  Oh,  say !  " 

She  returned  to  her  dusting.  "  No,  we  can't. 
Wake  up,  Adam,  the  dream  is  over." 

"  Oh !  "  he  said  boyishly.  "  After  all  that  tanta- 
lizing !  Of  course  we  can !  Why  couldn't  we — 
perhaps  to-morrow  evening?  " 

"  Certainly  not  to-morrow,"  she  said,  "  and  never 
at  all  unless  we  invited  Babe." 

198 


The  Lure  of  Fire 

His  crestfallen  look  amused  her.  He  reproached 
her  with  his  eyes. 

"  Well,  don't  decide  on  an  empty  stomach,"  he 
admonished.  "  Just  leave  it  till  after  a  while." 

"  That  reminds  me,"  she  said,  "  I  haven't  had  any 
luncheon  to-day.  Do  you  mind  if  we  go  quite 
early?" 

"  Why,  you  poor  little  thing !  Put  on  your  hat 
this  minute."  He  reached  to  take  her  hand  again. 
She  gave  him  the  dust-rag  instead. 

"  Sit  down  and  compose  your  features.  I  shall 
soon  be  ready." 

Adam  sat  down  while  Beatrice  retired  within  her 
smaller  room.  But  he  could  not  remain  in  the  chair. 
He  rose  and  strode  around  the  room  a  dozen  times, 
coming  back  always  to  the  roses  that  to  him  were 
almost  as  fragrant,  almost  as  beautiful,  almost  as 
utterly  transplanted  here  as  the  woman  of  his  heart. 

Beatrice,  when  she  presently  issued  from  her 
kitchen-boudoir,  enchanted  him  anew.  Her  color  had 
risen,  her  hat  was  becoming,  she  was  radiant  with 
happiness  that  could  not  be  repressed. 

Adam  moved  forward  to  halt  her.  She  feared  for 
the  impulse  surging  in  her  breast,  as  well  as  for 
the  lights  in  his  eyes.  She  passed  on  the  table's 
farther  side  and  continued  at  once  to  the  door. 

"  Oh — just  a  minute,"  Adam  said,  and  she  halted 
there  inquiringly.  "  Just  one  little  thing  you  for- 
got." He  hurried  to  her  side,  and  taking  the  one 
hand  not  yet  gloved,  he  kissed  it,  palm  and  fingers. 

199 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

"  Silly ! "  she  said  with  her  nature,  nevertheless, 
a-tingle.  "  You're  the  silliest  boy  I  ever  knew.  Do 
you  always  do  that  to  your  wife?  " 

"  Good  Lord ! "  he  said.  "  Is  this  to  be  a  ban- 
quet or  a  funeral  ?  " 

"  Forgive  me,  Adam  dear,"  she  said,  her  own  heart 
sore  and  sorry,  beneath  its  glad  excitement,  "  but 
we  really  must  remember." 

And  so  they  passed  out  into  the  public  light  and 
the  door  was  closed  behind  them. 


200 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A    LOSING    FIGHT 

BEATEICE  slipped  on  her  shackles  none  too  easily, 
with  her  heart  and  nature  in  rebellion.  But  her 
vision,  so  long  far-fixed  on  duty,  was  not  to  be  readily 
blinded.  She  knew  she  must  wage  a  constant  war, 
not  only  with  her  own  weak,  hungering  self,  but  also 
with  Adam  as  well. 

Indeed,  it  was  her  coming  war  with  Adam's  all  but 
resistless  spell  that  occasioned  her  deepest  worry. 
She  had  early  seen  that  while  he  did  in  honor  strive 
as  best  he  might,  his  best  was  as  nothing,  once  the 
wine  of  his  love  took  flame  from  his  virile  blood.  She 
had  frequently  quelled  his  recklessness  or  dampened 
the  ardor  of  his  overmastering  passion  by  the  men- 
tion of  his  wife.  This  ruse  could  scarcely  continue 
to  suffice,  as  the  days  went  by,  since  it  soon  must 
grow  dull  with  over-use. 

Her  own  temptation  was  nearly  overwhelming.  A 
world-old  sophistry  cried  to  her  heart  that  she  had 
all  to  gain  and  little  to  lose,  should  the  moment  come 
when  she  wearied  of  the  fight  and  surrendered  to 
reckless  joy.  An  equally  specious  argument,  that 
Adam's  wife,  by  selfish  neglect  of  his  marital  needs, 

201 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

had  sacrificed  and  lost  her  rights,  played  subtly  in 
her  thoughts. 

When  she  found  herself  the  actual  prey  of  in- 
sidious thoughts  respecting  the  ease  with  which  Mae 
Croswell  could  be  deposed,  she  was  terrified  and 
awed.  And  the  thought  had  horrid  fascinations  for 
her  mind.  As  an  ugly  face  may  draw  the  eyes,  be- 
cause of  its  uncanny  features,  so  this  thought  drew 
her  attention.  She  loathed  it  thoroughly.  Never- 
theless it  was  there. 

Everything  seemed  in  league  with  Fate  to  break 
down  the  pillars  of  her  temple.  Never  had  work 
been  so  scarce  as  during  these  months  of  panic. 
With  the  money  advanced  for  the  half -painted  por- 
trait of  Emily  a  number  of  bills  had  been  paid.  A 
portion  only  of  the  old  arrears  of  rent  had  thus  been 
liquidated,  for  money  was  still  due  abroad.  She 
would  presently  owe  for  a  month  and  a  half — with 
but  little  remaining  in  her  purse.  Some  of  the  work 
at  tinting  printed  cards  had  been  returned  for  higher 
coloring.  She  needed  shoes  and  countless  small  trifles 
of  the  wardrobe.  In  heart,  soul,  and  mind  she  was 
sick  of  the  work  that  necessity  forced  upon  her 
hands.  Except  when  Adam  took  her  forth,  or 
friends  bade  her  come  to  their  homes,  she  was  in- 
sufficiently nourished,  despite  her  schemes  of  economy, 
whereby  she  managed  to  procure  the  largest  pos- 
sible results  in  marketing  that  her  slender  purse 
could  support. 

Yet  the  total  of  these  mere  material  affairs  was 
202 


A  Losing  Fight 

as  nothing  in  the  fight  she  waged,  when  compared 
with  her  physical  emotions.  She  loved  Adam  Cros- 
well  with  all  the  accumulated  romance,  tenderness, 
<*,nd  passion  of  fully  a  dozen  years.  She  loved  him 
physically,  mentally,  and  with  all  her  psychic  being. 
All  the  latent  ecstasies  of  wifehood,  matehood,  and 
motherhood  rose  as  an  oceanic  surge  within  her  be- 
ing at  the  very  sound  of  his  voice.  At  times  it  had 
seemed  to  her  starving  heart  that  for  one  abandon- 
ing caress  from  him  she  would  give  her  very  hope  of 
heaven. 

Already  he  had  said  that  he  loved  her — repeatedly. 
His  eyes,  his  hands,  his  lips  had  testified — and  none 
so  convincingly  as  voiceless  love  itself — that  wholly 
invisible,  intangible  irradiation,  emanating  from  the 
heart  in  myriad  waves,  for  a  heart  alone  to  under- 
stand. She  loved  to  be  loved,  she  begged  to  be 
loved;  almost  she  demanded  to  be  loved.  Only  the 
being  locked  within  herself  could  know  what  her 
love  would  imply.  She  could  not  have  told  what  her 
nature  would  repay,  in  love  and  surrender,  to  him, 
giving  love  to  her  heart;  she  only  knew  herself  what 
it  meant  by  some  deep,  natural  power,  interpreting 
within  her  the  mighty  forces  that  would  lie  at  the 
feet  of  such  a  love  as  was  fitted  to  wake  them  into 
being. 

Against  the  endangering  cogency  of  all  this  emo- 
tion, against  a  similar  power  and  will  in  Adam's  being, 
and  against  the  meaner  but  no  less  persistent  tempta- 
tions engendered  by  her  loneliness,  her  poverty,  and 

203 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

her  weariness  of  bone  and  soul,  she  knew  she  must 
battle  alone. 

Babe  and  Emily  came  that  second  afternoon — 
and  somewhat  assuaged  the  reactionary  aches  that 
had  come  before  them  to  the  studio.  To  Babe  it 
seemed  as  if  one  more  than  beloved  had  returned  to 
rehearten  her  life.  It  was  not  that  she  had  felt 
neglected,  or  even  friendless,  during  the  time  while 
Beatrice  was  gone ;  it  was  more,  perhaps,  that  she  was 
home-sick — and  Beatrice  almost  filled  her  needs. 

The  natural  love  that  had  sprung  at  once  between 
them  grew  now  with  greater  rapidity  for  the  days 
it  had  been  denied.  A  beautiful  relationship  crys- 
tallized into  being,  as  their  intimacy  increased. 

Meantime,  Will  Sloane,  made  finally  aware  that 
Beatrice  was  home,  came  often  to  see  her  at  her  work. 
A  sweet  and  genuinely  helpful  being  he  was,  whose 
romance,  ready  at  a  moment's  notice  to  sacrifice  him- 
self, took  form  in  a  shy,  utilitarian  species  of  wor- 
ship that  had  never  yet  found  definite  utterance 
possible.  Despite  the  fact  that  he  had  at  last  begun 
to  speak,  in  a  tentative,  roundabout  way,  of  cer- 
tain hazy  matrimonial  intentions,  Beatrice  had  never 
for  a  moment  encouraged  a  concrete  declaration. 

She  had  known  him  for  years,  and  had  always  ob- 
served this  same  shy  friendliness,  the  quiet  wish  to 
be  of  help  and  his  reticence  of  speech.  There  had 
always  been  his  slight  confusion,  when  he  met  her 
kindling  glance.  It  had  come  when  he  loved  her 
hopelessly;  it  remained  now  that  hope  was  at  hand. 

204 


A  Losing  Fight 

He  brought  no  flowers,  but  instead  would  come  to 
mend  a  chair  or  table.  He  often  appeared  when 
Babe  was  there,  to  hover  about  in  a  sort  of  embar- 
rassed wistfulness  and  depart  when  he  feared  he  in- 
truded. Except  in  the  one  particular  of  hastening 
off  when  he  found  that  work  had  come  there  just 
before  him,  he  was  not  so  noticeably  different  as  a 
visitor  from  Paul — who  also  learned  to  come. 

Paul,  of  course,  appeared  in  response  to  his  in- 
terest in  Babe.  Despite  the  candor  of  his  motives, 
however,  he  had  nevertheless  progressed  no  further 
towards  a  fixed  or  decided  mind  than  heretofore.  He 
was  sure  in  his  heart  he  was  fond  of  Babe — and 
equally  sure  about  Frona.  With  respect  to  the  lat- 
ter he  might  not  have  termed  his  emotions  fondness. 
He  knew  not  what  to  term  them.  He  was  held  in 
a  sort  of  deadly  fascination  by  the  girl,  which,  while 
it  might  abate  somewhat  in  her  absence,  returned 
whensoever  he  beheld  her. 

And  Frona,  aware  in  her  subtle  way  of  certain  of 
her  powers,  was  rarely  absent  when  she  felt  that  Paul 
and  Babe  might  be  together.  She  also  came  to  the 
studio — twice  that  busy  week — and  had  promised  to 
come  there  again. 

Adam,  apprised  of  the  fact  that  all  these  visitors 
might  sometimes  be  encountered,  contrived  ingeni- 
ously, nevertheless,  to  visit  Beatrice  with  increasing 
regularity,  more  frequently  now  in  the  evening.  He 
came  at  unaccustomed  times,  and  always  with  a 
thoughtfulness  that  must  have  disarmed  the  sternest 

205 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

monitor  that  Beatrice  could  conjure  to  her  aid.  He 
might  arrive  at  the  hour  of  noon  with  a  basket  of 
fruits  and  dainties;  he  was  certain  to  come  with 
flowers  when  the  sky  was  gray  and  rain  or  snow  de- 
scended. On  a  hideous  night  of  zero  temperature 
and  blizzard,  when  all  the  day  had  been  wild  and  pro- 
hibitive, he  came  with  a  cab  to  bring  a  wonderful 
caterer's  box,  with  a  dinner  fit  for  the  gods. 

He  caught  her  twice  on  the  way  from  her  door  to 
a  cheap  little  table  d'hote  cafe — and  carried  her  off  to 
dine  with  himself  at  one  of  the  city's  boasted  hostel- 
ries,  where  comfort  and  charm  were  masterfully 
blended.  He  was  not  to  be  evaded,  not  to  be  refused, 
not  to  be  discouraged.  Such  care  as  he  exemplified 
was  more  than  merely  flattering;  it  demoralized  her 
forces ;  it  threatened  to  become  indispensable. 

More  and  more  Beatrice  found  herself  leaning 
upon  his  generosity  and  thoughtfulness — and  her 
independence  lessened.  She  had  tried  to  shut  her- 
self away  from  all  his  love;  she  had  done  her  very 
utmost  to  deny  him  opportunities  for  heaping  these 
kindnesses  upon  her,  and  yet  it  was  marvelously 
sweet  to  count  upon  his  care. 

Her  struggle  had  been  futile.  The  Fates  them- 
selves had  been  against  her.  Hardships  had  doubled, 
with  the  banks  of  the  country  alarmed  and  business 
dead.  Loneliness  now  was  far  more  poignant  than 
before;  many  a  friend  had  apparently  forgotten  the 
fact  that  she  lived. 

More  and  more  easy  had  it  finally  become  to  ac- 
206 


A  Losing  Fight 

cept  of  these  gifts  that  came  from  Adam's  heart. 
It  was  far  more  easy  to  surrender  her  hands  for  his 
kisses — to  cease  her  harsh  fighting  him  off.  Out  of 
her  very  hunger  for  the  words  and  protestations  of 
his  passion  sprang  the  ease  of  permitting  his  eyes 
and  lips  to  repeat  their  tale  of  love. 

She  still  maintained  her  attitude  of  antagonism 
to  all  that  he  did  and  said.  She  still  declared  she 
did  not  and  could  not  give  him  of  her  love — that  her 
heart  was  dead  and  cold.  But  her  love  had  grown 
so  clamorous,  it  frightened  her  with  hourly  fears  he 
must  feel  it  and  hear  it,  and  know. 

Adam,  for  his  part,  lost  in  a  dream — taking  these 
joys  with  a  boyish  sort  of  recklessness  and  fervor — 
had  every  genuine  wish  in  his  heart  to  be  her  honest 
friend.  He  loved  her  protectingly,  compassionately, 
riotously — nevertheless,  had  not  the  slightest  sinister 
intent.  Not  for  a  moment  had  he  deliberately 
planned  to  continue  on  beyond  the  bounds  of  honest, 
preservative  regard.  He  knew  he  was  stirred  to  the 
depths  of  his  soul  and  aroused  in  all  his  body ;  he  knew 
of  the  dangers  that  loomed  ahead — abysses  of  na- 
ture's contriving.  He  knew  what  the  world  would 
declare  of  him  now — yet  he  could  not  withhold  from 
his  course. 

Adam  was  not  in  the  least  a  preying  or  evil-minded 
man.  He  was  not  even  overly  weak.  As  men  are 
made — and  modified — by  the  customs,  conventions, 
and  habits  of  life  by  which  they  find  themselves  sur- 
rounded, Adam  was  more  than  ordinarily  strong. 

207 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

His  loyalty  to  Mae  had  been  exceptional;  his  con- 
tinence, among  other  men,  would  have  seemed  in- 
credible. His  sense  of  honor  was  a  splendid  thing, 
to  which  he  wished  to  adhere. 

Nevertheless,  he  was  a  natural,  animal  being,  vigor- 
ous, hungering,  responsive  to  demands  that  the  high- 
est of  laws — the  laws  of  life — had  abundantly  laid 
upon  him.  He,  too,  had  fought,  had  striven  hard 
against  the  mighty  urgings  of  his  nature.  He  came 
to  Beatrice  constantly  with  his  mind  made  up  to  re- 
sist the  power  of  his  passion.  He  made  his  effort 
honestly — but  he  made  it  always  in  vain. 

He  could  not  resist  the  dictates  laid  at  the  very 
roots  of  life.  He  could  not  conquer  with  a  cold  re- 
solve where  joy  and  the  blood  and  the  wine  of  love 
were  leagued  to  urge  him  forward  night  and  day. 
He  had  come  to  think  of  this  seeking  Beatrice  as  part 
of  his  very  life  and  being.  It  seemed  the  natural, 
indisputable  right  of  his  starving  heart.  By  a  hun- 
dred insignificant  intimacies  of  their  chumship  it 
seemed  as  if  they  had  always  possessed  and  always 
must  have  the  right  to  a  mate-like  attitude  towards 
one  another. 

When  for  nearly  two  weeks  this  subtle  develop- 
ment had  continued,  the  habits  of  Adam's  mind  and 
heart  were  almost  newly  fixed.  They  were  not  to  be 
changed  by  the  fact  that  Mae  returned  with  her 
maid  from  the  South.  But  neither  was  Fate  to  be 
turned  aside  from  the  joy  of  another  of  her  dramas. 


208 


CHAPTER  XVII 

WII/L    SLOANS 

MAE  had  wired  from  Washington  for  Adam  to 
meet  her  at  the  train.  Both  he  and  Babe  had  been  on 
hand.  And  having  his  sweet  and  innocent  young- 
niece  at  his  side,  Adam  had  once  more  battled  with 
himself  to  make  himself  worthy  of  his  women. 

He  had  found  his  wife  rosy  and  plump.  He  had 
dared  to  hope  her  trip  had  indeed  proved  so  thor- 
oughly rejuvenating  that  some  of  his  new-planned 
arguments  might  for  once  meet  approval  in  her  mari- 
tal sight  and  bridge  the  wide  chasm  between  them- 
selves, correcting  their  errors  of  the  past. 

But  Mae  had  begun,  on  the  ferryboat  itself,  to  de- 
scribe the  needs  for  her  going  abroad  and  the  won- 
ders she  expected  in  a  year.  When  she  learned  that 
Adam  had  actually  failed  to  secure  her  passage  on 
the  steamer  she  was  hurt  so  profoundly  in  nerves  and 
heart  that  her  strength  abruptly  wilted  from  her  be- 
ing. He  had  almost  to  carry  her  bodily  from  the 
boat,  to  place  her  in  a  cab  for  driving  home. 

He  had  thought  to  oppose  her  trip  abroad  as  a 
means  for  their  mutual  salvation.  He  had  gone  at 

209 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

it  boyishly,  fondly,  almost  in  trembling  and  fear — 
the  fear  he  so  utterly  despised.  He  had  failed,  abso- 
lutely, and  in  finally  giving  consent  to  let  her  depart 
from  his  hearth  for  a  year,  had  been  conscious  at  last 
of  a  terrible  sensation  of  gladness,  to  think  she  was 
going  so  far. 

For  two  whole  days,  since  Mae's  return,  he  had  even 
avoided  the  street  where  Beatrice  lived.  He  sent  her 
a  huge  bunch  of  violets,  but  without  a  word,  either  of 
himself  or  concerning  his  wife  and  her  arrival. 

Friday,  that  week,  was  a  gray,  mild  day,  with 
threaten  of  rain  in  the  air.  Beatrice  finished  an  or- 
der of  fifty  hand-colored  engravings  at  one  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  and  hastened,  without  a  mouthful 
of  lunch,  to  deliver  them  over  to  the  dealer. 

At  two  she  returned,  a  trifle  pale,  decidedly  weary, 
and  a  little  in  wonder  as  to  what  it  implied  for  Adam 
to  remain  thus  away.  Even  Babe  had  neglected  to 
visit  the  studio  as  usual,  with  Emily. 

A  sharp,  peremptory  ring  on  her  'phone  greeted 
her,  almost  as  she  entered.  She  stepped  at  once  to 
the  box  on  the  wall  and  placed  the  receiver  at  her 
ear.  If  a  sweet,  wild  hope  of  hearing  Adam's  voice 
upon  the  wire  flashed  for  a  moment  through  other, 
discouraging  meditations,  it  was  dissipated  promptly. 
It  was  not  the  call  of  love  that  came  across  the  town, 
but  the  call  of  commerce — a  brief  demand  for  rental 
due  and  a  charge  of  promises  neglected. 

"  I  was  about  to  call  you  up  and  say  I  haven't 
been  able  to  collect  for  some  work  done  this  morn- 

210 


Will  Sloane 

ing,"  Beatrice  answered  in  the  instrument.  "  I  have 
just  come  in  without  it.  I*m  sorry  to  ask  you  to 
wait  another  day,  but  I  am  doing  the  best  I  can. 
.  .  .  Yes,  I'm  expecting  a  check  this  evening,  or  the 
first  thing  in  the  morning.  I'll  send  it  at  once. 
.  .  .  Yes,  yes,  I'll  do  my  best.  .  .  .  I'll  do  all  I  can. 
I  hope  you  will  continue  to  be  as  indulgent  as  possi- 
ble. .  .  .  I'll  try  again  this  afternoon  to  get  some 
money." 

Wearily  she  hung  up  the  receiver,  then  stood 
there,  dully  looking  about  the  place,  as  she  slowly 
removed  her  hat  and  gloves.  The  gloves,  she  noted, 
were  broken  and  shabby.  Even  as  second  best  they 
were  no  longer  possible.  Like  the  walls  and  furnish- 
ings about  her,  they  and  herself,  she  felt,  were  dingy, 
worn  out  from  over-employment,  useless.  Even  the 
flowers  that  represented  Adam's  last  offering  were 
wilted  in  their  vase. 

Despite  her  sense  of  duty,  despite  everything,  she 
wished  that  he  would  come.  She  had  never  wished 
it  more  in  all  these  weeks.  Indeed,  she  had  never 
dared  permit  herself  the  positive  wish  before.  She 
had  faced  this  sort  of  discouragement  and  disheart- 
enment  so  many  times  that  her  life  had  taken  on  the 
habit.  She  had  never  faced  it  less  courageously  than 
to-day.  She  was  fully  aware  she  had  learned  to 
lean  on  Adam,  recently — or  rather  that  Adam  had 
forced  her  so  to  lean — but  she  also  realized,  as  woman 
must,  at  last,  that  thus  to  live  and  struggle  on  alone 
was  a  deadly,  unnatural  condition. 

211 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

Her  heart  and  soul  were  in  rebellion — crying  for 
rights  of  love,  protection,  and  companionship — cry- 
ing for  surcease  of  this  daily  round  of  labor  and 
denial,  that  dried  up  her  heart  and  sapped  her  youth 
and  despoiled  her  alike  of  her  natural  functions  and 
her  oneness  with  her  kind. 

She  had  risen  early,  to  finish  the  work  which  had 
not  been  paid  for  when  delivered.  Her  breakfast 
had  been  meager.  She  was  faint  and  depressed  from 
lack  of  food.  When  this  fact  was  at  length  im- 
pressed upon  her  understanding,  she  went  to  her  cup- 
board and  took  down  three  or  four  crackers  and  two 
black  bananas,  which  she  ate  as  she  sat  by  her  win- 
dow. She  had  placed  her  kettle  on  the  stove  for 
tea. 

She  steeped  herself  a  cup  at  last  and  drank  it 
gratefully.  Determined  then  to  prepare  an  early 
dinner,  and  perhaps  spend  the  evening  with  Mrs. 
Van  Pelt,  she  washed  three  small  potatoes — all  she 
happened  to  have  in  the  larder — put  them  to  boil, 
with  the  gas  turned  low,  and  was  taking  down  a 
chopping  machine  to  reduce  some  tough,  cheap  meat 
to  pulp  for  two  or  three  rissoles,  when  the  doorbell 
rang  abruptly. 

Hastily  wiping  off  her  hands  and  closing  the  small- 
room  door,  she  crossed  the  studio,  burning  with  pleas- 
urable excitement.  She  was  almost  certain  it  was 
Adam. 

But  it  was  Sloane — and  a  nervous,  self-frightened 
Will  at  that,  since  once  again,  as  several  times  be- 

212 


Will  Sloane 

fore,  he  had  come  resolved  to  speak  out  his  heart  if  it 
killed  him. 

"Oh,"  said  Beatrice.  "Why,  Mr.  Sloane— 
come  in." 

He  entered,  muffled  in  his  overcoat,  and  holding  a 
cardboard  tube  beneath  his  arm. 

"  How  are  you  to-day  ?  "  he  asked  her  simply,  and 
he  offered  his  hand,  by  way  of  greeting. 

"  Oh,  quite  well,  thank  you,"  Beatrice  answered, 
receiving  the  handshake  she  had  known  these  many 
years.  "  I  began  to  think  I  shouldn't  have  a  visitor 
to-day.  Won't  you  find  a  seat  and  take  off  your 
coat,  while  I  try  to  get  things  ready  for  another  hour 
of  work?  I  know  you  won't  mind  if  I  go  on  with  a 
few  more  of  my  calendars."  She  went  to  her  table, 
where  a  new  lot  of  work  was  lying  untouched  and 
waiting. 

Will  took  off  his  coat.  Both  the  garment  and  his 
tube  he  placed  in  his  orderly  manner  on  the  couch. 

"  Perhaps  I'm  de  trop,"  he  said  to  her  shyly. 
"  You  mustn't  let  me  interfere  with  anything  impor- 
tant. I — just  dropped  in  to — to  pass  the  time  of 
day  and " 

He  did  not  finish.  She  had  heard  him  at  least  a 
thousand  times  leave  a  sentence  unfinished  in  the  air. 

She  busied  herself  at  the  table. 

"  How  is  your  business  coming  on  ?  " 

"  Splendidly — splendidly !  "  He  could  always  re- 
cover his  poise  on  the  topic  of  business,  or  anything 
strictly  impersonal.  "  I've  got  a  lot  of  the  final 

213 


The  Pittars  of  Eden 

papers  to  be  signed  this  afternoon,"  and  he  waved  a 
gesture  towards  his  tube.  "  I  hoped  to  get  every- 
thing closed  up  this  evening,  but  the  morning  will 

answer  just  as  well.  And  then "  He  looked  at 

Beatrice  longingly.  A  flush  crept  redly  up  from 
his  neck  and  inundated  all  his  face  and  ears. 

She  was  mixing  her  colors  attentively. 

"  What  a  great  relief  it  must  be  to  your  mind." 

He  made  an  exceptional  effort. 

"  It  will  be  an  equally  great  joy  to — my  heart." 

"  I'm  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  Beatrice  answered, 
without  so  much  as  glancing  up.  "  I  trust  you  are 
going  to  find  all  the  happiness  you  so  richly  de- 
serve." 

He  was  instantly  all  confusion. 

"  Why,  I — I  don't  think  many  of  my  friends  would 
think  I  deserve  any  particular  happiness.  But  if 
just  one — the  right  one — thought  so,  I " 

He  did  not  continue.  Beatrice  had  begun  her  work 
in  earnest. 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  know  what  you  mean.  But, 
doesn't  she?  I  have  thought  you  meant  to  imply  a 
number  of  times  that  everything  in  that  respect  was 
quite  satisfactory." 

Will  fidgeted. 

"  Well  I — I  hope  things  are  the  way  I  hope  they 
are — but — if  I  could  only  be  sure." 

She  refused  to  understand  him. 

"  You  don't  mean  you  haven't  asked  her,  all  this 
time?  " 

tu 


Will  Sloan* 

"  I — well — no — I  mean  the  business.  It  hasn't 
seemed  wise  till  I  was  certain  of  the  outcome  of 
my  venture." 

Still  she  did  not  meet  his  gaze  as  he  stirred  and 
blushed  with  schoolboy  confusion.  She  answered  im- 
personally, almost  as  if  for  the  sex. 

"  Oh,  if  she  loves  you  she'd  doubtless  prefer  to  help 
you  over  the  worries." 

His  nervousness  suffered  a  sudden  increase.  He 
felt  himself  upon  the  very  verge  of  all  he  wished  to 
say. 

"  Do  you  think  so,  Bea — Mrs.  Graham?  " 

The  light  was  failing  as  the  clouds  without  were 
banking  thicker.  Beatrice  arose  to  go  back  to  the 
window  and  run  up  one  of  the  curtains. 

"  Certainly,"  she  answered.  "  Nothing  could 
please  a  loving  woman  more." 

Will  immediately  rose  to  follow. 

"  I — I've  wanted  to  speak.  I've  wanted  to  say — 
I've  been  in  hope " 

Beatrice  pulled  at  the  curtain  and  it  fell  with  a 
crash  to  the  floor. 

"There!"  she  said.  "That  miserable  thing  is 
down  again.  I  can't  seem  to  make  it  stay  in  place." 

Will  was  actively  catching  it  up.  There  was 
nothing  in  which  he  was  so  much  at  home  as  useful- 
ness about  the  house. 

"  Let  me  see  if  I  can't  make  it  stay,"  he  suggested. 
"  Perhaps  it  wasn't  in  the  slot."  He  took  a  chair, 
climbed  up  at  once,  and  found  that  coaxing  and 

215 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

strength  together  were  required  to  readjust  the 
stick. 

Beatrice  watched  for  a  moment,  then  returned  to 
her  work  by  the  table. 

She  said :  "  I  wonder  if  there's  anything  left  in  this 
studio  you  haven't  repaired  or  reformed  in  the  past 
few  months." 

He  had  conquered  the  roll,  and  run  it  up  in  excel- 
lent order.  He  came  down  dusting  off  his  hands. 

"  Oh,  I  haven't  done  anything  at  all.  It's  particu- 
larly nice  of  you  to  let  me  come  and  pretend  I'm  really 
a  help." 

Beatrice  glanced  at  him  briefly,  with  friendship  in 
her  eyes. 

"  I  feel  you'll  make  some  woman  a  very  kind  and 
thoughtful  husband,"  she  answered  him  gravely. 
"  I  have  heard  you  are  just  as  unselfish  of  your  time 
and  energies  with  all  your  fortunate  friends." 

He  stood  near  by,  looking  at  her  nervously.  His 
face  had  become  very  white.  He  failed  to  understand 
the  full  significance  of  her  meaning. 

"  Why  I — I—  -  If  only  I  thought  you  thought  I 
could  possibly  make — make  a  woman  happy — Don't 
— don't  you  see — don't  you  remember " 

The  doorbell  rang  with  a  suddenness  that  nearly 
brought  on  his  collapse. 

He  added  weakly :  "  There's  someone  coming 
now." 


216 


CHAPTER 


VISITORS    AND    REVELATIONS 

BEATRICE  had  left  the  door  unfastened.  She  rose 
at  once  from  her  seat. 

"  Come  in,"  she  called.    "  Come  in." 

It  was  Babe  who  responded  to  the  summons.  She 
had  come  with  little  Emily,  whose  portrait  was  all 
but  complete. 

"  How  de  do  ?  "  she  said,  in  her  sunny  utterance. 
"  Are  we  too  late  for  a  sitting  to-day  ?  How  de  do, 
Mr.  Sloane?  I'm  sure  it  isn't  late  enough  to  be  as 
dark  as  this." 

Will,  despite  his  confusion,  managed  his  customary 
greeting.  Beatrice  was  very  much  relieved,  for  once 
again  her  heart  had  suggested  Adam  when  the  bell 
disturbed  her  thoughts. 

"  I'm  delighted  to  have  you  come,  at  any  hour  in 
the  day,"  she  answered  fondly,  and  she  knelt  beside 
the  child,  adding  :  "  How  do  you  do,  sweetheart  ? 
Are  you  pretty  well  to-day  —  and  got  a  kiss  for  me?  " 

Emily  suffered  herself  to  be  kissed,  but  was  look- 
ing in  eagerness  about  the  room  for  the  things  in 
easy  reach.  Babe  shook  hands  with  Will,  in  her 
usual  fashion. 

217 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

"  Golly ! "  she  said,  "  your  hand  is  as  cold  and 
clammy  as  a  mud  pie !  Your  circulation  must  be  out 
of  commission,  or  maybe  you're  in  love.  It  does 
make  some  people's  hands  do  that,  I  know.  And 
some  just  get  so  they  can't  eat  a  thing.  I've  never 
been  in  love  as  much  as  that,  have  you?  " 

Will  reddened  painfully. 

«  Well— I " 

"  Of  course,"  Babe  went  on,  "  a  good  deal  depends 
on  what  there  is  to  eat.  How  many  times  have  you 
ever  been  in  love  ?  " 

Emily  saved  the  situation.  She  had  no  more  than 
wriggled  from  her  coat  than  she  started  at  once  to 
climb  to  the  mantel.  Will  beheld  her — and  rejoiced 
to  think  she  was  alive. 

"  Dear  me — Emily "  he  started,  when  Babe 

made  a  saving  maneuver. 

She  caught  the  youngster  adroitly  and  carried  her 
quickly  to  the  couch. 

"  Come  here,  Emily,  none  of  your  tantrums  to- 
day," she  said.  "  Stand  up  and  let  me  take  off  your 
dress." 

Emily's  portrait  was  being  painted  somewhat 
decollete. 

Will  was  aware  of  what  was  coming.  He  was 
thoroughly  embarrassed. 

"Well — I — I'm  sure  I'm — Miss  Emily  might  be 
sensitive,"  he  stammered  uneasily.  He  took  up 
his  coat  and  put  it  on.  His  tube  was  quite  for- 
gotten. 

218 


Visitors  and  Revelations 

Beatrice  was  engaged  in  preparations  for  the 
painting. 

"  Oh,  she  won't  mind  you  a  bit,"  said  Babe,  busy 
with  Emily's  disrobing.  "  She  doesn't  take  off  every- 
thing. Just  look  at  her  now!  Isn't  she  cute?" 

Beatrice  added :  "  You  needn't  run  away,  Mr. 
Sloane." 

"  Well  I — I've  got  a  number  of  things  to  do,"  said 
Will.  "  Perhaps  I  can  come  again  soon." 

Beatrice  urged  him  in  all  earnestness  to  do  so  as 
often  as  he  might.  She  thanked  him  again  for  re- 
placing the  curtain  and  gave  him  her  hand  at  the 
door. 

"  Good-by,  dear  friend,"  she  said.  "  I'm  sorry 
you  cannot  remain." 

"  Good-by !  "  cried  Emily.  "  Me  getting  my  pic- 
ture took  wivout  my  dress."  She  jumped  up  and 
down  in  Babe's  encircling  arms  in  childish  ecstasy. 

Beatrice  closed  the  door  with  a  last  good-by  and 
returned  at  once  to  her  chair. 

Babe  glanced  at  her  inquiringly. 

"  Isn't  Mr.  Sloane  real  nice?  It's  a  wonder  to  me 
he  doesn't  get  married.  Isn't  he  kind  of  in  love 
with  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  no,  of  course  not,  Babe — just  thoughtful 
nnd  kind." 

"  Why,  but — doesn't  he  bring  you  all  your 
flowers  ?  " 

Beatrice,  from  having  been  calm  enough,  was 
instantly  thrown  into  confusion.  She  bent  above 

219 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

her  painting  at  once,  to  conceal  a  crimsoning  tide  of 
warmth  that  arose  to  flood  her  face. 

"  Why,  no,  child — certainly  not,"  she  said.  "  He 
never  brought  a  flower  here  in  all  his  life." 

Babe  was  evidently  disappointed.  "  And  after  I 
had  it  all  fixed  up  in  my  mind !  "  Then  she  bright- 
ened afresh.  "  Of  course,  if  some  other  gentleman 
brings  them,  why,  that's  all  right — only  I  thought  of 
course  it  was  Will." 

Beatrice  glanced  at  the  child. 

"  Emily,  dear,  look  over  this  way  for  just  a  mo- 
ment, please." 

Babe  turned  the  youngster  about. 

"  She's  getting  awfully  sleepy,"  she  said.  "  She 
has  missed  her  nap  two  days."  After  a  moment  she 
added:  "I  just  knew  somebody  would  fall  in  love 
with  you." 

Beatrice  was  startled  anew. 

"  Have  I  said  that  anyone  has  ?  " 

"  No,"  Babe  agreed,  "  but  you  haven't  said  any- 
one hasn't.  I  just  love  to  hear  about  romantic 
things!  And  you  are  awfully  nice.  I  wouldn't 
blame  any  man  for  falling  in  love  with  you." 

"  You  are  very  complimentary." 

Babe  persisted :  "  Aren't  you  really  in  love — or 
isn't  someone  in  love  with  you — just  a  little?  I  just 
feel  as  if  something  of  the  kind  was  going  on." 

"Why— what  talk!" 

"  Oh,  tell  me !     I'll  never  tell  a  soul !  " 

Beatrice  laughed  again.  Despite  herself  she  could 
220 


Visitors  and  Revelation's 

not  altogether  banish  that  certain  sort  of  happiness 
so  often  engendered  by  discussion  of  a  tender  pas- 
sion, especially  in  the  absence  of  the  heart's  beloved 
object. 

"  Dear  child,"  she  said,  "  every  woman  has  had 
her  little  affairs  of  romance,  I  suppose." 

Babe  was  not  at  all  satisfied.  "  Oh,  I  don't  mean 
has-beens !  I  mean  is'es !  Isn't  there  someone  you 
care  for  right  now — or  someone  who  cares  for 
you?" 

Beatrice  looked  up  and  met  Babe's  quizzical  look 
with  a  smile  of  rarest  charm. 

"  Why  do  you  persist  in  asking  such  a  hopeless 
plodder  as  I  am  all  these  questions  ?  " 

"  Plodder !  "  said  Babe,  with  emphasis.  *'  I  wish 
I  were  half  as  fascinating  as  you  are!  I'm  just  dy- 
ing to  talk  to  someone  about  love." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  presently  added 
with  apparent  irrelevance :  "  Poor  old  Uncle  Adam ! 
I  think  his  case  is  the  limit.  It's  a  shame  the  way 
Aunt  Mae  goes  on !  She  doesn't  deserve  such  a 
splendid  man.  She's  been  home  two  days — and  I 
think  she's  crankier  than  ever ! " 

Beatrice  found  a  species  of  explanation  in  this 
vital  bit  of  news — that  herein  lay  a  probable  cause 
for  Adam's  unusual  absence.  She  said  no  more 
than: 

"Oh!" 

"  He's  just  been  too  kind  and  generous — that's 
what's  the  matter !  "  Babe  continued.  "  She's  utterly 

221 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

spoiled.  She  isn't  a  bit  of  comfort  to  anyone — not 
even  herself — and  planning  now  to  go  abroad  and 
leave  him  alone  for  a  year.  Of  course,  that  knocks 
me  out,  for  I've  got  to  pack  and  go  home.  I  wouldn't 
mind  that,  if  it  wasn't  for  poor  Uncle  Adam.  It  just 
makes  me  tired  the  way  she's  treating  him !  He's 
always  doing  something  nice  for  other  people — like 
having  this  picture  painted — and — Oh,  I  didn't 
mean  to  tell !  " 

Beatrice,  having  glanced  up  suddenly  at  Babe's 
revelation,  met  that  impetuous  young  being's  ex- 
pression of  chagrin  inquiringly. 

"  Mr.  Croswell  ?  "  she  said.  "  You  don't  mean  he 
is  having  this " 

"  Why,  certainly,"  Babe  informed  her  defiantly. 
"  I've  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag,  so  I  might  as  well 
let  out  the  kittens.  Emily's  father  is  a  baker. 
They've  got  heaps  of  money,  but  they  don't  care  a 
cent  for  art.  And  Uncle  Adam  is  stuck  on  the 
young  one  because  he  hasn't  got  one  of  his  own." 

"  You — you  are  sure  of  what  you're  saying, 
Babe?  "  She  had  felt  that  Adam  might  have  been 
instrumental  in  sending  Emily  here,  but  that  Adam 
was  paying  for  the  miniature  she  had  never  even 
faintly  suspected.  She  added :  "  The  picture  is  to  go 
to  Mrs.  Bronson." 

"  Oh,  gee !  "  said  Babe,  "  didn't  Uncle  Adam  and 
I  sort  of  fix  it  up  together?  I  asked  him  if  some- 
thing couldn't  be  done  and  he  gave  me  the  money  to 
pay  in  advance — and  told  me  not  to  give  the  thing 

222 


Visitors  and  Revelations 

away.  I  didn't  mean  to  do  it,  either — and  you 
needn't  let  on  that  I  did." 

Beatrice  painted  quietly,  Babe  meantime  some- 
what concerned  to  know  precisely  what  effect,  if  any, 
her  blunder  might  have  produced.  Emily  broke  the 
silence. 

"  Me  wants  to  get  down." 

Beatrice  said :  "  You  might  let  her  down  for  a  mo- 
ment." 

Babe  readily  complied  with  the  hint  and  came  to 
stand  above  the  work,  her  eyes  upon  it  in  honest  ad- 
miration. 

"  Oh,  isn't  it  going  to  be  cute?  "  she  said.  Then 
she  sniffed  at  the  air  all  around.  "  I  thought  I 
smelled  smoke.  I  guess  it's  the  paints." 

Emily  promptly  sped  away  to  a  shelf  of  books  and 
magazines  within  her  reach,  pulled  three  or  four  from 
their  places  and  sat  among  them,  then  and  there  to 
despoil  them  of  their  pictures. 

The  bell  rang  out  sharply,  as  before. 

"  I'm  afraid  we  shan't  accomplish  very  much," 
said  Beatrice,  as  she  rose  to  go  to  the  door.  "  This 
seems  to  be  a  popular  day  for  calling." 

The  visitor  proved  to  be  Paul. 

"  Oh,"  said  Beatrice.  "  How  do  you  do,  Mr. 
Price?  Won't  you  come  in?  " 

Paul  grinned,  as  he  entered,  to  mask  his  trifling 
embarrassment. 

"How  do  you  do?"  he  said.  "I  just  thought 

I'd "  He  saw  that  Babe  was  present.  "  Well, 

223 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

by  George ! "  he  added,  "  what  a  pleasant  surprise  to 
find  you  here,  Miss  Nickerson !  " 

"  Surprise?  "  said  Babe.  "  You  asked  me  yester- 
day if  I  was  coming  with  Emily." 

Beatrice  had  returned  to  her  paints.  Paul  grinned 
more  broadly  than  before. 

"Did  I?  Oh,  yes,  I  believe  I  did.  But  I  got  to 
thinking  about  a  new  invention  of  mine — a  simple 
thing — a  grave-digger,  in  fact,  that  seems  so  unique 
and  speedy  that  I  wonder — Seems  to  me  I  smell  some- 
thing burning.  It  smells  like " 

"  My  potatoes ! "  cried  Beatrice  suddenly.  She 
jumped  up  and  ran  with  all  the  activity  of  a  girl  of 
ten,  admitting  a  great  blue  cloud  of  pungent  fume 
as  she  opened  and  closed  her  kitchen  door. 


284 


CHAPTER  XIX 

UNCERTAINTY    UNABASHED 

BABE  stood  looking  where  Beatrice  had  gone  with 
a  serious  little  pucker  on  her  brow. 

"  That's  a  shame !  "  she  said.  "  But  I  certainly 
do  admire  a  woman  like  Mrs.  Graham,  who  isn't 
afraid  to  work  and  cook  her  own  dinner — and  never 
makes  a  kick !  " 

Emily  was  busy  on  the  floor,  her  work  of  destruc- 
tion proceeding  quite  to  her  satisfaction.  Paul  un- 
obtrusively followed  where  Babe  was  leading  to  the 
couch. 

"  You  haven't  said  a  word  about  my  new  inven- 
tion." 

Babe  sat  down,  leaving  ample  room  for  another. 

"  Why,  I  didn't  know  grave-digging  had  to  be  done 
by  machinery,"  she  confessed.  "  I  wouldn't  want 
mine  dug  in  any  such  a  hurry.  But  what  about  all 
your  other  inventions?  You  haven't  forgotten 
those?" 

"  Oh,  they're  all  right,"  he  assured  her  confi- 
dently, taking  the  seat  at  her  side.  "  They  won't 
get  away.  I'm  awfully  glad  to  see  you  again.  I 
haven't  seen  you  for  hours." 

225 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

Babe  laughed,  in  her  delicious  little  chuckle. 

"  You  never  say  very  much  when  you  do  see  me. 
Do  you  know  anything  about  palmistry?  Can  you 
tell  my  fortune?  " 

Paul  took  her  hand  and  bent  above  it  gravely.  If 
he  studied  it  more  by  the  sense  of  touch  and  pres- 
sure than  by  visual  inspection,  the  results  to  Babe 
were  not  necessarily  made  less  acceptable  there- 
by. His  powers  of  divination,  however,  were 
dubious. 

"  I  can't  quite  seem  to  tell  whether  you'll  marry  an 
inventor  or  not." 

Babe  demanded :  "  Where  do  you  see  anything  that 
looks  like  an  inventor?  " 

"  Right  there,"  said  Paul,  indicating  vaguely,  "  on 
the  line  of  your  heart." 

"  That  crazy-looking  little  wiggler?  " 

"  No,  sir !     That  strong,  manly  line." 

Babe  laughed.  "Isn't  that  the  limit?  What's 
his  name  ?  " 

"  It  doesn't  say."  He  continued  to  bend  his  dis- 
cerning attentions  upon  the  fragrant  softness  of  her 
palm. 

Emily  arose  and  disappeared  behind  the  screen,  as 
Paul  continued  irrelevantly :  "If  I  only  could  be 
dead  sure  of  the  way  things  would  really  turn 
out " 

"  What  kind  of  things?  "  said  Babe. 

"  Why,  you  know — just  things — everything. 
Now,  for  instance,  just  suppose  I  was  to  come  around 

226 


Uncertainty  Unabashed 

to-morrow  and  ask  you  to  marry  me — what  would 
you  say — just  supposing,  I  mean?  " 

Babe  withdrew  her  hand. 

"  I  don't  like  those  make-believe,  supposing  stunts." 

Paul  was  insistent.  "  But  I  mean  suppose  I  loved 
you  and  you  loved  me  ?  " 

"  Why,  then,  it  would  be  a  cinch.  But  if  we  are 
only  supposing " 

"  Well,  of  course,  Babe,  you "  started  Paul. 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  fearful  crash  that  came 
from  behind  the  screen.  Babe  leaped  quickly  to  her 
feet. 

"Oh,  gee!"  she  cried.     "Where's  Emily?" 

Emily  emerged  from  her  place  of  retirement  hold- 
ing in  her  hand  the  upper  portion  of  a  broken  water 
pitcher. 

"  Me  all  wet,"  she  announced.  "  Nassy  bottle 
broke ! " 

Babe  had  gone  to  her  swiftly. 

"  Oh,  you  naughty  little  tike ! "  she  said,  as  she 
knelt  upon  the  floor  to  take  the  pitcher  handle  from 
her  hand.  "  If  you  aren't  a  mess !  You'll  have  to 
be  washed  and  dressed,  and  you  ought  to  be  spanked 
in  the  bargain !  "  But  she  kissed  the  child  instead. 

Paul,  too,  had  risen  and  was  looking  on,  quite  en- 
tertained. 

"  She's  kind  of  cute,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  agreed  Babe,  rising  with  Emily  in  her 
arms  and  moving  to  the  couch,  where  she  caught  up 
the  youngster's  garments,  "  but  I  hope  I'll  never  have 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

one  just  exactly  like  her.  She's  too  busy.  You'll 
have  to  excuse  us  just  a  minute  while  I  take  her  out 
and  wash  her  up." 

"  Me  had  a  baff,  all  the  same,"  said  Emily,  and 
they  disappeared  behind  the  kitchen  door. 

Beatrice,  meantime,  had  opened  the  window,  for  the 
exit  of  the  smoke,  and  was  trying  to  save  her  black- 
ened stewing-pan  by  scouring  out  the  bottom.  She 
ceased  her  labors  at  once,  closed  the  window  and  as- 
sisted in  restoring  Emily  to  a  presentable  condi- 
tion. 

Emily,  quite  exhausted  by  her  own  and  her  pro- 
tectors' efforts,  curled  engagingly  down  in  Babe's 
young  arms  and  began  to  take  her  nap.  She  was 
fast  asleep  when  once  she  was  finally  permitted  to 
rest  there  undisturbed. 

Babe  looked  at  the  little  empty  stove. 

"  Why  don't  you  put  on  some  more  potatoes  ?  rt 
she  said.  "  It  doesn't  take  them  long  to  cook,  and 
we've  got  to  be  starting  for  home." 

"  There  aren't  any  more  in  the  house,"  said  Bea- 
trice. "  Never  mind  about  the  potatoes,  Babe,  we'll 
take  advantage  of  Emily's  nap  to  do  a  little  more 
work." 

"Oh,  can  you?"  said  Babe.  "That'll  be  fine. 
And  I'll  run  out  and  get  some  potatoes  while  you're 
painting." 

"  Why,  you  shan't  do  anything  of  the  sort,"  said 
Beatrice.  "  It  isn't  of  the  least  importance." 

Babe  looked  up  in  her  face  quizzically. 
228 


Uncertainty  Unabashed 

"  I  think  perhaps  Paul  might  possibly  like  to  take 
me  to  Hymen's — for  a  cup  of  chocolate." 

"  Oh,  of  course.  Well,  here's  ten  cents  on  the 
shelf — if  you  really  don't  mind  the  trouble,  Babe." 
She  opened  the  door,  put  her  dime  in  Babe's  hand  and 
followed  into  the  studio. 

Babe  met  Paul's  inquiring  glance. 

"  The  poor  little  kid  has  gone  to  sleep  at  last," 
she  said,  "  and  so  you  and  I  are  going  out,  while  Mrs. 
Graham  paints.  Pve  got  to  get  a  pair  of  rubbers, 
the  kind  they  have  in  that  store  right  next  to  Hy- 
men's." 

"  That's  bully !  "  said  Paul.  "  I  was  sort  of  won- 
dering if  we  couldn't  manage  some  way  to I 

mean  I  thought  we'd  like  a  little  walk." 

He  hurried  on  his  coat,  while  Babe  was  carefully 
disposing  Emily  upon  the  couch  with  her  face  to- 
wards the  artist's  table. 

Beatrice,  seated  at  her  work  again,  was  eagerly 
mixing  her  colors. 

"  I  can  make  good  use  of  all  the  time  she  naps," 
she  said,  "  so  don't  feel  the.  need  of  hurry." 

"  Well,"  said  Babe,  advancing  to  the  door,  "  we 
won't  be  gone  so  very  long.  How  many  pounds  of 
potatoes  shall  I  get?  Oh,  yes,  I  remember — ten 
cents'  worth." 

They  said  good-by  and  closed  the  door — and  Bea- 
trice painted — and  thought. 


229 


CHAPTER  XX 

ROSES    AND    RECKLESSNESS 

THE  sky  outside  had  slightly  lightened.  Beatrice 
paused,  after  five  or  ten  minutes  of  steady  work, 
leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  fixed  her  eyes  on  va- 
cancy, while  her  thoughts  roved  far  afield. 

That  Adam  should  loom  upon  her  inward  vision 
was  inevitable — since  even  now  her  hands  were  heavy 
with  his  gifts.  She  had  dared  to  hope  he  had  done 
no  more  than  induce  the  Bronsons'  inclination  to- 
wards herself,  in  the  matter  of  Emily's  portrait.  To 
know  that  he  was  paying  for  the  picture  had  some- 
what disturbed  that  central  resolve  within  her  breast 
which  had  helped  her  to  refuse  his  material  aid.  She 
felt  she  was  far  more  helpless,  far  less  independent 
than  she  had  heretofore  supposed.  She  tried  to 
foresee  what  results  might  come,  should  matters  con- 
tinue as  they  were. 

With  his  wife  about  to  desert  the  scene,  with  her 
own  increasing  helplessness  in  the  battle  for  a  living 
and  the  struggle  to  shut  out  his  love,  and  with 
weakness  developing  upon  her  as  their  chumship  con- 
tinued to  grow,  she  hardly  dared  confront  her  own 
alarming  subcurrent  of  reflections. 

230 


Roses  and  Recklessness 

From  having  wished,  almost  whole-heartedly,  that 
Adam  might  come  this  afternoon,  she  fled  to  a  hope 
he  might  not  appear  for  a  long,  long  time  of 
rest.  If  only  he  could  stay  away  till  her  strength 
and  self-reliance  could  recover,  she  felt  she 
might  regain  her  feet  and  so  seek  another  field 
of  living. 

There  was  nothing  else  could  give  her  back  her 
former  independence.  She  must  work,  work,  work. 
Almost  as  one  in  a  frenzy,  she  bent  to  the  task  in  hand. 
But  when  she  looked  up  at  the  sleeping  child,  and  all 
Babe's  words  concerning  Adam  and  his  love  for 
youngsters  came  again  to  warm  her  own  va«t  yearn- 
ing towards  wifehood  and  motherhood,  a  surge  of 
love  unconquerable  rose  to  engulf  her  heart  and  soul 
and  bear  her  away  in  Adam's  arms  in  an  ecstasy 
not  to  be  resisted. 

And  that  was  the  moment  chosen  by  the  Fates  for 
Adam  to  ring  the  bell. 

That  Babe  had  returned,  for  something  perhaps 
forgotten,  was  the  thought  that  Beatrice  entertained. 
She  resumed  her  painting  hurriedly,  even  as  she  raised 
her  voice  to  call. 

"  Come  in." 

Radiant,  eager,  incredibly  joyous  to  be  playing 
this  sort  of  truant  once  again,  after  several  days  of 
absence  from  her  side,  Adam  swung  vigorously  in  at 
the  door  with  a  huge  bunch  of  roses,  carefully 
wrapped,  hanging  inverted  in  his  hand. 

"  Oh ! "  said  Beatrice,  suddenly  rising,  her  whole 
231 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

face  and  neck  suffused  with  glowing  color.  "  Why, 
Adam,  I  didn't  expect " 

He  tossed  his  roses  to  a  chair  and  came  to  her 
swiftly,  taking  both  her  hands — to  kiss  them  both  in 
rapture. 

"Beatrice!"  he  said.  "You  beautiful  little 
woman — how  glorious  you  are  when  you're  really 
glad  to  see  me !  " 

"  But  I'm  not,"  she  said.  "  I  was  hoping  you'd 
stay  away  a  month.  Why  have  you  come  again  so 
soon  ? — and  you've  brought  a  lot  more  flowers." 

"  Just  a  few — and  that  photograph  you  asked  me 
for — at  least  the  one  I  promised,"  he  answered  boy- 
ishly, digging  down  in  his  pocket.  "  I  don't  see  how 
I  stayed  away  so  long — and  I'm  never  going  to  do 
such  a  thing  again ! "  He  gave  her  the  picture  as 
he  spoke. 

She  dexterously  avoided  the  movement  he  made  to 
take  her  hands  as  before.  The  photograph  she  ac- 
cepted in  apparent  calm.  Her  one  mad  impulse  was 
to  throw  her  arms  about  his  neck  in  one  impetuous 
surrender  to  the  longing  and  cry  of  her  heart. 

"  You  will  presently  remain  away  altogether,"  she 
told  him  quietly.  "  Thank  you  for  the  picture,  very 
much."  She  placed  it  on  the  table  and  was  turning 
again  to  her  work. 

Adam  intervened,  and  faced  her  about,  his  two 
hands  firmly  on  her  shoulders. 

"  Beatrice — Beatrice,"  he  said,  "  how  wildly  glad 
I  am  to  see  you  again !  I've  been  trying  to  keep 

2S2 


Roses  and  Recklessness 

away.  I  can't — I'd  rather  be  starved  for  food  and 
water  than  starve  my  heart  like  that.  I  can't  keep 
away — and  I  admit  it !  "  He  suddenly  caught  at  her 
hands  again  and  kissed  them  in  frightening  ardor. 

Beatrice  felt  her  breath,  her  resistance,  swept  away. 

All  she  could  trust  herself  to  say  was,  "  Adam !  " 

"Oh,  what's  the  use?"  he  answered  recklessly. 
"  I  love  you,  Beatrice !  That's  all  I  know  and  all  I 
care  and  all  that  makes  life  worth  the  living — just 
to  love  you  and  tell  you  that  I  love  you ! " 

She  saw  that  his  absence  had  only  served  to  store 
vast  reservoirs  of  love  and  intensity  within  him.  Her 
own  senses  reeled  with  the  sweetness  of  the  moment — 
the  absolute  joy  of  his  love  thus  nakedly  declared. 
And  yet,  perhaps  by  habit,  she  continued  with  her 
fight.  She  pushed  him  away  and  took  up  the  roses 
from  the  chair. 

"  Don't  be  foolish,  you  great  big  boy,"  she  ad- 
monished him  gravely.  "  You  haven't  any  right  to 
talk  like  that.  You  ought  to  have  stayed  away  at 
least  a  reasonable  time.  You  ought  not  to  bring 
these  roses  here — when  you  know  I'd  rather  you 
wouldn't.  What  do  you  imagine  people  will 
presently  think  ?  " 

Adam  threw  off  his  overcoat  and  dropped  it  on  her 
chair. 

"  Oh,  hang  the  people !  I  can't  compel  myself  to 
care !  I'm  as  joyous  as  a  lad !  "  He  took  the  flowers 
from  her  hand  to  remove  the  protecting  paper. 

"  Well,  I  do  care,"  said  Beatrice,  clinging  in  des- 
233 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

peration  to  her  feeble  hold  upon  duty.  "  Only  a 
little  while  ago  Babe  was  asking  about  all  the  flowers 
she  has  seen  in  this  place,  where  an  artist  who  can't 
afford  them  makes  her  home.  And  I  had  to  put  her 
off  with  evasions.  It  cannot  and  must  not  go  on. 
And  you  cannot  remain,  for  she's  coming  right 
back — and  I  will  not  let  her  find  you  here  like 
this." 

She  took  the  roses  in  her  hands  again  and  moved 
towards  the  back  of  the  screen.  Adam  followed. 

"  Here,"  he  said,  "  you've  got  to  let  me  help.  If 
Babe  is  coming  back,  I  don't  propose  to  let  you  go  for 
a  moment  from  my  sight,  for  the  few  little  minutes 
I'm  here." 

"  And  your  wife  only  two  days  home,"  said  Bea- 
trice. "  You  didn't  tell  me  she  had  returned." 

"  She  makes  it  so  damnably  easy  to  forget,"  he  an- 
swered rebelliously.  "  She's  just  as  distant  from  me 
at  home  as  she  is  way  down  in  the  South." 

Beatrice  pursued  the  subject,  perhaps  because  of 
the  fact  that  it  quelled,  once  more,  the  reckless  spirit 
of  his  love. 

"  Wasn't  her  trip  beneficial  ?  " 

*'  Not  to  me.  Can't  we  talk  of  something  agree- 
able? You  haven't  told  me  how  you've  been — and 
that's  all  I  care  to  know." 

He  started  to  take  the  roses  and  her  hand  to- 
gether. 

"  I'm  going  to  leave  them  here  behind  the  screen," 
she  said,  and  she  placed  them  far  back  in  the  corner. 

234 


"  My  health  has  been  quite  as  usual,"  she  added, 
"  and  my  nerves  have  thrived  in  your  absence.  Now 
come  out  and  sit  down  and  behave." 

She  started  back  to  her  chair  beside  the  table. 
Adam  caught  at  her  hand,  to  hold  it  first  against  his 
cheek,  then  its  palm  against  his  lips. 

"  You  cruel  little  torment,"  he  murmured,  "I  don't 
believe  you  for  a  minute.  You've  had  to  miss  my 
coming— all  this  long  and  starving  time !  " 

"  Will  you  behave  ?  "  she  tried  to  demand  of  him 
sternly.  "  Adam,  I  tell  you  this  sort  of  thing  isn't 
going  to  go  on.  I'd  be  ashamed  to  look  Mrs.  Cros- 
well  in  the  face — or  Babe — or  anyone  else." 

"  Nonsense ! "  said  Adam,  nettled  again  by  the 
repeated  mention  of  his  wife.  "  Why  must  you  drag 
her  in  every  minute?  Can't  you  see  that  she  has 
forfeited  all  the  rights  she  ever  had?  A  man  can't 
go  on  as  I've  been  going — forever.  I  love  you,  Bea- 
trice— and  it  can't  be  helped!  The  one  sweet  joy  I 
have  in  life,  to  reconcile  me  to  existence,  is  in  coming 
to  see  you,  like  this  !  " 

He  still  retained  her  hand,  which  he  held  against 
his  face.  It  seemed  as  if  love,  like  a  vast,  warm  wind, 
spring-like  in  its  blustering,  its  fragrance,  and  its 
power,  were  sweeping  her  onward  to  his  arms.  His 
breath  was  hot  upon  her  face;  his  eyes  were  shrines 
where  love  in  passion  and  tenderness  burned.  Her 
heart  was  holding  forth  its  arms  to  his,  and  the  flame 
in  her  blood  sought  flames  in  his  as  fire  must  welcome 
its  kind. 

285 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

With  all  her  strength  she  resisted  again  and  put 
on  the  mask  of  frozen  things  with  which  she  had 
chilled  him  often. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Adam ;  I  don't  love  you.  I've  told 
you  and  warned  you  before.  There  is  something 
dead  in  my  heart.  I  cannot  love  again.  And  if  I 
did  it  would  still  be  wrong — all  wrong — and  you 
know  that  this  mustn't  continue." 

He  was  not  to  be  cooled  while  his  nature  felt  that 
her  own  was  denying  her  words. 

"  It  must,  Beatrice ! "  he  answered  as  before. 
"  It's  Fate  and  we  can't  help  ourselves." 

He  led  her  towards  the  corner. 

"  Yes,  we  can  and  we  must,"  she  insisted.  "  I  re- 
fuse to  go  on.  And  I  simply  cannot  and  will  not 
permit  people  to  see  you  coming  here  so  often." 

He  asked  her  earnestly :  "  Is  there  anything,  dear, 
in  all  the  world  save  love  that  is  worth  the  hav- 
ing?  " 

"  But  I  do  not  love  you,  Adam.  Can  you  never 
be  made  to  understand  ?  " 

They  had  come  to  the  couch,  where  Adam  halted. 

"  No,  Beatrice,  no — I  can  never  be  made  to  believe 
that  you  really  speak  from  your  heart.  I  could  not 
love  you  as  I  do — I  could  not  feel  this  mighty  ex- 
altation of  my  heart  if  something  did  not  cry  to  me 
that  my  love  has  found  its  mate.  I  have  never 
been  so  happy  in  my  life  as  now — as  I've  been 
since  I  found  you  again,  just  a  few  short  weeks 
ago!" 

286 


Roses  and  Recklessness 

He  started  to  sit  upon  the  couch  and  urge  her  down 
at  his  side. 

"  Oh,  do  be  careful,  Adam !  "  she  cried.  "  Don't 
sit  on  the  child !  " 

He  turned  abruptly. 

"  Hullo,  good  lordie !  I  didn't  know  she  was  here. 
The  little  rogue !  " 

The  lover  had  gone,  and  the  father  had  come,  in 
the  briefest  of  human  transitions.  He  knelt  on  the 
floor  beside  the  sleeping  child  and  kissed  her  in  fond- 
ness on  the  cheek. 

Beatrice  looked  down  upon  him,  a  new,  subtle  fond- 
ness laid  upon  her  nature  by  his  act. 

"  Don't  wake  her,  Adam,  please,"  she  said.  "  And 
you'll  really  have  to  go.  Babe  and  Paul  may  return 
at  any  moment — and  I  ought  to  go  on  with  my 
work." 

Adam  still  knelt,  to  gaze  in  parental  yearning  on 
the  rosy  youngster  there  upon  the  couch. 

"  There's  nothing  in  the  world  so  pretty,  or  so 
helpless  as  a  little  kid  asleep,"  he  answered  softly. 
"  Funny  what  a  hold  they  get  upon  a  fellow's 
heart." 

Beatrice  smiled.  How  well  she  understood  him — 
his  yearnings,  his  nature,  and  all ! 

"  That's  all  you  really  want,  Adam,  a  child — 
something  to  love  and  fondle.  You're  a  natural 
father  and  ought  to  have  a  family." 

Adam  rose.  A  surge  of  new  emotion  had  engulfed 
him. 

237 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

"  God  Almighty ! "  he  said  " — a  little  youngster 
of  my  own  !  " 

Beatrice  caught  at  another  of  her  straws,  through 
the  innate  goodness  of  her  being. 

"  Perhaps  it  isn't  too  late.  Your  wife  is  still  quite 
young." 

She  went  to  her  chair,  removed  his  coat  and  sat 
again  at  her  work.  He  looked  at  her  strangely. 

"  My  wife !  "  he  said.     "  Hell !  " 

She  could  not  resent  the  emphasis — she  understood. 
He  paced  across  the  room  and  back,  to  still  some 
anger  of  his  soul.  He  presently  came  to  stand  above 
her  chair,  then  to  kneel  and  examine  the  picture. 

"How  is  it  coming  along?"  he  said.  "By 
George,  it's  an  exquisite  art.  It  seems  to  me  that 
ought  to  be  worth  at  least  twice  what  Babe  informed 
me  was  the  price.  I'm  going  to  make  the  Bronsons 
dig  up  at  least  an  extra  hundred." 

Beatrice  laughed. 

"  The  Bronsons !  Adam,  you're  not  a  clever 
fraud.  Babe  has  shattered  that  little  fiction,  at  last. 
And  you  hadn't  the  right  to  do  it." 

"The  deuce  I  hadn't!"  he  answered.  "You 
wouldn't  let  me  help  in  any  other  way." 

"  Certainly  not,  you  silly  boy.  How  would  it 
look?  Have  you  never  thought  of  that?  And  be- 
sides, as  I've  told  you  before,  I  don't  require  such 
assistance  anyway." 

One  of  his  hands  sought  out  and  captured  hers,  the 
other  he  laid  upon  her  shoulder. 

238 


Roses  and  Recklessness 

"  But  I  want  to  help  you,  Beatrice.  It  hurts  me, 
dear,  to  see  you  always  working — to  know  of  your 
self-denials — all  the  time — to  know  that  you  are 
putting  through  your  brave,  hard  struggle,  alone." 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  was  swaying  helplessly. 
There  was  so  much  of  sweetness  offered  here,  if  only 
she  dared  to  accept. 

"  I  want  to  protect  and  love  you,  Beatrice,"  he 
continued  caressingly.  "  I  want  to  be  a  comfort  to 
your  heart.  I  want  to  give  you " 

Sharp  and  incisive  the  bell's  alarm  broke  in  upon 
his  pleading. 

Beatrice  leaped  to  her  feet,  like  a  doe  surprised 
by  the  hounds  in  the  open.  Her  eyes  dilated  with 
dread. 

"  There,  there — there's  somebody  now !  "  she  said. 
"  I  didn't  want  you  seen  like  this !  I  wanted  you  to 
go !  You'll  have  to  put  on  your  coat  as  if  you  were 
going.  Oh,  where  is  that  photograph?" 

She  caught  up  the  tell-tale  picture  and  hid  it  in  a 
book. 

Adam  had  taken  his  coat  in  hand,  and  was  descend- 
ing on  his  hat. 

"  But,  Beatrice,  I  don't  want  to  go,"  he  whispered. 
"  I'll  wait  till  you  send  them  away."  He  moved  at 
once  towards  the  screen. 

"  No,  no !  "  she  said.  "  Adam !  You  mustn't — 
you  mustn't  do  that!" 

But  the  madness  was  upon  him.  He  would  not 
hear,  and  the  bell  rang  again,  in  new  persistence. 

239 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

Beatrice  was  helpless.  Her  one  hope  was  that  the 
person  at  the  door  might  prove  but  a  man  for  the 
rent.  One  glance  of  worry  and  utter  dismay  she  cast 
where  Adam  was  hiding,  then  moved  to  the  door  and 
drew  it  open. 

Then  she  suddenly  paled  and  weakened.  She  was 
facing  Adam's  wife. 


240 


CHAPTER  XXI 

A   TRAP   FOR   TROUBLE 

MAE,  in  response  to  the  murmured  invitation,  came 
languidly  in  and  sought  a  chair.  She  was  gowned 
superbly.  She  had  come  in  a  cab,  that  was  waiting 
below  in  the  street. 

"  Dear  me,  I  thought  I  should  never  get  to  this 
out-of-the-way  place  in  the  world,"  she  said,  when 
the  formal  greetings  had  been  exchanged.  "  But  I 
had  to  come  out  for  a  number  of  calls  and  thought 
I'd  stop  in  for  a  moment." 

Beatrice,  making  an  effort  requiring  all  her 
strength  and  self-composure,  attempted  a  welcoming 
smile. 

"  I  am  sure  you  were  very  thoughtful.  I  was 
finishing  up  for  the  afternoon  and  putting  my  things 
away.  You — you  did  not  expect  to  have  a  sitting 
to-day — of  course?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  I  couldn't  think  of  anything  so  fa- 
tiguing," Mae  protested  in  her  languor.  "  I  thought, 
perhaps,  I  might  find  Mr.  Croswell  here." 

That  Beatrice  did  not  then  betray  her  haunting 
apprehension  argued  much  for  the  strength  of  her 
nerves. 

241 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

"  But — why  should  he  call?  "  she  managed  to 
inquire. 

Mae  was  innocent  of  suspicions. 

"  I  left  a  note,  asking  him  to  call  about  the 
miniature." 

Beatrice  felt  a  gush  of  relief,  like  fresh  cool  air 
upon  fever. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  I've  heard  nothing  at  all  about 
the  miniature  from  Mr.  Croswell." 

Mae  discovered  Emily. 

"  Miss  Nickerson,  my  niece,  told  me  you  were  paint- 
ing Mrs.  Bronson's  child." 

"  Yes,"  said  Beatrice,  wildly  hoping  that  Mae 
would  conclude  her  errand  and  depart,  "  I've  been 
making  the  effort.  Miss  Nickerson  brings  her  two 
or  three  times  a  week." 

Mae  settled  back  in  her  chair. 

"  I  wanted  Mr.  Croswell  to  ask  if  you  could  pos- 
sibly finish  my  miniature  at  once.  I  am  sure  the 
Bronsons  could  wait." 

"  How  soon  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  next  few  days,"  said  Mae.  "  The  doc- 
tor has  ordered  me  abroad  for  an  absolute  rest — 
perhaps  for  a  year — and  I  should  like  the  miniature 
finished  to  leave  for  Mr.  Croswell." 

Beatrice  could  not  resist  the  impulse. 

"Mr.  Croswell  is  not  to  accompany  you,  then?" 

"  Oh,  dear  me,  no,"  said  Mae.  "  I  should  have 
no  rest  if  Mr.  Croswell  were  with  me.  The  doctor 

242 


A  Trap  for  Trouble 

says  it  is  rest  from  my  husband  and  household  cares 
that  my  system  particularly  demands." 

Beatrice  merely  said,  "  Oh !  " 

"  So  I  thought  I'd  consult  the  doctor,"  Mae  con- 
tinued, "  and  then  if  you  could  manage  to  come  to 
the  house  and  remain  for  two  or  three  days,  you 
might  possibly  finish  the  miniature  by  taking  ad- 
vantage of  sittings  as  often  as  I  was  able  to  endure 
the  trial  to  my  nerves." 

Beatrice  was  startled  at  the  thought  of  remaining 
as  suggested  beneath  the  roof  with  Adam — living  in 
his  house. 

"  But  I — my  other  work "  she  started. 

"  Of  course,  I  should  expect  to  pay  you  extra," 
Mae  interrupted.  "  I  would  gladly  pay  you  in  ad- 
vance, if  your  other  work  had  to  be  delayed." 

Beatrice  concealed  lier  agitation. 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  quite  as  convenient  for  me  to  call 
every  morning  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Mae,  "  that  would  make  me  very 
nervous.  I  am  sure  my  plan  is  the  best,  if  the 
doctor  approves." 

Beatrice,  busy  with  putting  away  her  materials, 
felt  by  instinct  the  proposal  must  be  rejected. 
Nevertheless,  she  was  greatly  in  need  of  the  money 
the  work  would  bring. 

"  I — shall  have  to  think  it  over." 

Mae's  voice  took  on  a  slight  accent  of  complaint — 
the  accent  she  had  learned  to  employ  to  make  her 
way  with  Adam. 

248 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

*'  I  hope  you'll  not  oppose  me,  Mrs.  Graham.  I'm 
really  in  no  condition  to  be  opposed." 

Beatrice  felt  an  immediate  resentment  of  this  false 
appeal.  But  she  could  not  affront  either  a  client  or 
Adam's  wife. 

"  When  do  you  sail?  "  she  asked  her  quietly. 

"  A  week  from  to-day,  if  I  have  the  strength." 
She  arose  and  stood  by  the  chair. 

The  impulse  to  speak  the  merest  word  in  Adam's 
behalf  was  not  to  be  resisted. 

"  Mr.  Croswell  will  probably  miss  you  very  much 
indeed." 

"  Oh,  he  has  his  work,"  said  Mae,  reassuringly. 
"  Fortunately  he  earns  plenty  of  money — that's  one 
great  relief  to  my  mind.  I  don't  know  what  I  should 
do  without " 

Once  more  the  bell  interrupted.  It  rang  so 
sharply  that  Mae  all  but  staggered  to  regain  her 
chair,  her  hand  pressed  closely  to  her  heart. 

Beatrice,  tingling  with  cause  for  apprehension, 
with  more  of  her  visitors  arriving  to  complicate  and 
delay  affairs  already  sufficiently  frightening,  had 
barely  the  strength  to  meet  the  situation. 

"  Come  in,"  she  called,  and  moved  across  the  floor 
to  open  the  door  herself. 

It  was  Sloane,  returned  to  get  his  cardboard  tube, 
which  was  lying  at  Emily's  back. 

"  Why,  I  found  I'd  left  my  papers  somewhere  in 
your —  "  he  started  to  say,  when  he  saw  that  Mae 
was  present.  "  Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Croswell?  " 

244 


A   Trap  for  Trouble 

he  added,  advancing  at  once  to  Mae.  "  This  is  an 
unexpected  pleasure." 

He  offered  his  hand,  but  Mae  was  still  clinging 
to  her  heart. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  when  you  rang  that  bell  it  gave 
me  a  terrible  start.  I  thought,  perhaps,  I  should 
faint." 

"  Dear  me,  I'm  sorry,"  said  Will,  in  honest  com- 
passion. "  Perhaps  Mrs.  Graham  has  a  glass  of 
water."  He  turned  towards  the  screen  and  made  a 
gesture,  as  he  glanced  for  a  second  at  Beatrice. 
"  May  I  get  some  here?  " 

Beatrice,  suddenly  flushing  and  engulfed  with  the 
fears  that  rose  to  flood  her  bosom,  hastened  to 
interpose. 

"  Oh,  no,  no — please  do  not  bother,"  she  said. 
"  I'll  get  some  water  in  the  other  room."  She  started 
for  the  kitchen. 

Mae  said :  "  I'd  much  rather  have  your  smelling 
salts." 

The  salts  were  behind  the  screen.  Beatrice  halted, 
and  wavered.  She  dared  not  state  that  she  had  no 
salts,  for  her  one  desire  was  to  see  Mae  restored  and 
leaving  for  home,  perhaps  with  Will. 

"  Certainly,"  she  said,  and  she  went  where  Adam 
was  hiding. 

She  found  him  red  with  consciousness  of  guilt — 
the  guilt  of  subjecting  herself  to  all  this  terrible 
ordeal.  She  could  not  speak;  she  could  merely  look 
her  dumb  reproach,  see  the  helpless  look  that  an- 

245 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

swered  in  his   eyes,   and  hasten   back   to   Mae   with 
the  bottle  she  had  taken  from  the  shelf. 

Will  was  making  what  amends  he  could  for  his 
crime  of  agitating  the  bell. 

"  It's  too  bad  I  rang  so  thoughtlessly,"  he  said. 
"  But  you  are  looking  very  well  indeed.  Your  trip 
must  have  done  you  great  good." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Mae,  "  but  a  few  hours  of 
household  cares  have  begun  to  put  me  right  where 
I  was  before  I  went  away." 

Beatrice  came  and  placed  the  salts  in  her  hand. 
Will  was  looking  at  her  closely. 

"  I  declare  you  look  quite  unstrung  yourself,  Mrs. 
Graham,"  he  said.  "  Isn't  there  anything  I  can  do 
or  something  I  can  get  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  no,"  said  Beatrice,  smiling  wanly. 
"  I  sometimes  feel  a  little  tired,  but  it  passes  off  as 
soon — 

The  bell  incisively  jingled — and  Mae  promptly 
dropped  the  salts. 

"  Oh,  that  horrible  bell !  "  she  said.  "  I  should  die 
if  I  had  to  endure  it  all  day  long." 

Beatrice  had  reached  a  stage  where  nothing  more 
could  greatly  matter. 

"  Come  in,"  she  called,  and  Babe  came  burst- 
ing into  the  room.  Paul  had  been  lost  on  the 
way. 

"  Here's  your  spuds,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  hello,  Aunt 
Mae,  where'd  you  come  from?  "  She  came  across  the 
room  and  placed  her  parcel  on  the  table. 

246 


A   Trap  for  Trouble 

Mae  answered :  "  I'm  glad  you've  come  to  take 
me  home." 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  home,"  said  Babe,  in  perfect 
candor.  "  I'm  going  to  cook  dinner  for  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham. Frona  Abbot  came  along  and  captured 
Paul,  and  I've  got  to  do  something  desperate  or 
bust ! " 

At  any  other  time  than  this  Beatrice  could  have 
smiled.  Mae  never  could  have  done  so. 

"  I  simply  cannot  go  home  alone,"  she  said.  "  I 
should  think  you  might  give  a  little  thought  to  me 
once  in  a  while." 

Will  came  to  the  rescue  gallantly. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  let  me  see  you  home.  Isn't 
your  cab  at  the  door?  " 

Beatrice  saw  defeat  of  her  cherished  hope  that  all 
would  depart  together. 

She  said :  "  If  your  aunt  prefers  it,  Babe,  I'm 
sure  you'd  better  not  stay.  Besides,  Emily " 

"  But  I  want  to  stay,"  Babe  expostulated.  "  I 
don't  get  any  fun  at  all.  Will  can  take  Emily  and 
Aunt  Mae  together  and  kill  two  birds  with  one 
stone."  She  took  up  the  bag  of  potatoes.  "  I'll 
wash  these  off  and  get  some  on  the  stove.  Can't  I 
get  some  water  here  ?  "  And  she  moved  towards  the 
screen. 

Beatrice  nearly  collapsed  with  sudden  fear.  She 
interposed  with  simulated  calm. 

"  No — no,  my  dear.  Please  don't  bother.  I'd 
rather  you  wouldn't.  Your  aunt  is  very  nervous." 

247 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

"  Seems  to  me  everybody's  nervous,"  said  Babe. 
"  What's  the  matter,  anyway?  " 

Will  thought  he  could  explain. 

"  I  gave  your  aunt  a  very  trying  start  when  I 
rang  the  bell.  I  am  exceedingly  sorry,  I'm  sure." 

"  Oh,  gee !  "  said  Babe.     "  An  old  bell !  " 

She  wakened  Emily,  who  half  rolled  down  to  the 
floor,  in  full  possession  of  her  customary  faculties. 

"  Me  wants  a  drink,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  hello,  dear,"  said  Babe,  instantly  turning 
to  the  child.  "  All  right,  honey,  you  shall  have 
it." 

Once  more  she  started  to  go  behind  the  screen — 
and  again  poor  Beatrice  had  to  move  with  quick  but 
unsuspicious  alacrity,  to  guard  the  secret,  growing 
more  and  more  compromising  with  every  passing 
moment. 

"  Please  get  it  in  the  kitchen,"  she  begged.  "  The 
— the  kitchen  water  is  better." 

"  Oh,  all  right,"  said  Babe,  and  she  started 
kitchenward.  "  Anybody  would  think  there  was  a 
lion  behind  that  screen." 

Will  was  solicitous  of  Mae's  condition. 

"  Are  you  feeling  any  stronger  ?  " 

"  I  shall  be  all  right  in  a  moment — and  then  we 
must  go,"  she  answered.  "  I  am  still  fatigued  from 
my  long  trip  coming  home." 

Emily,  having  leaned  for  a  moment  against  the 
couch,  now  started  abruptly  for  the  screen,  on  which 
she  laid  her  destructive  hold  with  intent  to  tug  it 

248 


A   Trap  for  Trouble 

over.  Babe  was  returning  from  the  smaller  room, 
bearing  a  glass  full  of  water. 

Beatrice  snatched  the  child  to  her  breast,  barely  in 
time  to  prevent  Adam's  sudden  uncovering.  She  was 
pale  and  faint  from  fright. 

"  Here's  your  drink,  you  tike,"  Babe  announced 
to  the  child.  "I'll  bet  you  don't  take  but  a 
swallow." 

Mae  rose  and  placed  her  bottle  on  the  table. 

"  There,"  she  said,  "  I  think  I'll  try  to  go.  Babe, 
will  you  please  get  ready  ?  " 

Babe  took  Emily  over  to  the  couch  and  began 
to  put  on  her  coat. 

Beatrice  turned  to  Mae. 

"  I  think,  perhaps,  it  might  be  wiser,  Mrs.  Croswell, 
not  to  attempt  the  sittings  at  present  at  your  home. 
I  am  sure  you  haven't  the  strength." 

"  Oh,  yes — yes,  I  feel  I  have,"  Mae  insisted.  "  I 
shall  'phone  you  what  the  doctor  advises,  at  once. 
And  that  reminds  me,  Babe,  of  something  I  wish  you 
to  do  at  home.  You  must  first  take  Emily  to  her 
mother  at  once.  You  can  go  by  the  car.  I  couldn't 
bear  to  have  her  in  the  cab — and  Will  can  see  me 
home." 

Sloane  had  recovered  his  tube  and  was  holding  it 
fast  beneath  his  arm.  Babe  arose  with  Emily  and 
pulled  her  into  her  coat.  She  was  still  unquelled. 

"  I'd  like  to  know  where  you'd  be,"  she  said  to 
Mae,  "  if  your  mother  had  only  had  a  dog  and 
nervous  prostration!  Poor  little  kid!  The  way 

249 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

some  New  York  people  act  you'd  think  a  child  would 
eat  them  up !  " 

Mae  had  crossed  to  the  door. 

"  Good-by,  Mrs.  Graham,"  she  said,  "  Til  'phone 
you  from  the  doctor's." 

Emily  announced :     "  Me  wants  another  drink." 

"  No,  you  don't,"  said  Babe.  "  If  you  drink  too 
much  you'll  get  foundered."  She  added  to  Beatrice : 
"  Good-by,  I  wanted  to  stay  and  camp  out  with 
you." 

Beatrice  bade  them  all  good-by  and  followed  them 
quite  to  the  door.  Will  was  the  last  to  go.  He 
offered  his  hand. 

"  Good-by,"  he  murmured,  "  I  hope  to  come  again 
soon." 

Then  the  door  was  closed  and  Beatrice  half  stag- 
gered to  a  chair,  where  she  sank  in  exhaustion  of 
spirit  and  strength,  to  cover  her  face  with  her  hands. 


250 


CHAPTER  XXII 

WHEN  LOVE  IS  AT  BAT 

ADAM  came  out  from  his  place  of  concealment, 
red  and  no  little  abashed. 

He  approached  the  chair  where  Beatrice  sat, 
without  a  word,  and  placed  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 
She  did  not  move  and  he  did  not  immediately  speak. 

At  last  he  said :  "  You  know  I  didn't  mean  to 
cause  you  all  this  anxiety.  Forgive  me,  Beatrice, 
please." 

She  arose,  wearily,  to  shake  off  the  weight  of  his 
hand. 

"  I  never  felt  more  ashamed — more  guilty  in  my 
life." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that,"  he  pleaded.  "  It  was  all 
accidental.  Who  would  have  dreamed  of  her  com- 
ing here  to-day?  " 

"  What  would  she  think? "  Beatrice  demanded, 
ignoring  his  remark.  "  What  would  anybody  say 
at  your  hiding  here  like  that  ?  "  She  made  a  ges- 
ture of  helpless  impatience  that  hurt  more  than  her 
words. 

His  reply  was  lame :  "  Well — after  all,  it  came 
out  all  right." 

251 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

"  And  I  had  to  lie ! "  she  continued.  "  I  was 
driven  to  that.  And  you  were  so  near  to  being  dis- 
covered !  To  think  that  you  could  do  it !  " 

"  I  know,  but " 

"  You  don't  know — you  don't  know  at  all !  "  she 
interrupted.  "  They'd  blame  it  all  to  me !  It's 
always  the  woman — and  I've  tried  so  hard !  It  isn't 
my  fault  that  you've  gone  on  making  love  to  me 
here,  day  after  day  !  " 

Adam  fell  back  upon  facts.  No  other  ground  was 
offered. 

"  It  isn't  anybody's  fault  that  I  love  you,  Beatrice 
— I  simply  do.  I  can't  help  it.  You  heard  her — 
you  know  a  little  of  the  slavery  she  has  grown 
to  expect,  and  demand.  I'm  nothing  to  her  but  a 
money-making  engine.  And  by  God !  my  nature  cries 
out  for  something  human — for  human  companion- 
ship and  love ! " 

Beatrice,  too,  was  aroused. 

"  But  your  nature  has  no  right  to  cry  to  me ! " 

He  approached  her  closer.  A  light  of  something 
fiercely  splendid,  something  superbly  primordial  was 
burning  in  his  eyes.  His  face  had  taken  on  a  stern- 
ness she  had  never  seen — the  sternness  of  a  rousing 
man  about  to  become  a  master. 

"  It  isn't  altogether  a  matter  of  mere  conven- 
tional rights,"  he  said,  "  and  I  do  cry  out  to  you — 
to  you,  my  natural  mate — despite  my  wish,  despite 
my  judgment — despite  my  utmost  struggle !  " 

She  met  him,  strength  for  strength. 
252 


When  Love  is  at  Bay 

"  But  what  if  you  destroy  me  thus — destroy  us 
both  with  your  love  ?  " 

"  Love  never  destroys,"  he  told  her  in  his  heat. 
"  You  know  that,  Beatrice.  Love  has  some  rights — 
the  divinest  rights  to  all  it  may  achieve.  You  have 
your  rights  and  I  have  mine,  in  love  and  life  and 
glory.  We  have  our  rights,  after  all  these  years 
of  mistake !  " 

She  retreated  a  little  from  before  him  and  placed 
a  chair  between  them.  She  met  his  gaze  with  a  cold 
resolve  she  was  laboring  hard  to  maintain. 

"  We  haven't  a  right  that  anyone  would  recog- 
nize," she  told  him  judicially.  "  We  are  part  and 
parcel  of  the  world." 

"  Then  are  we  both  to  starve  ? "  he  demanded. 
"  Is  a  man  or  a  woman  to  go  on  slaving  as  we  have 
slaved,  and  be  forever  denied  the  few  bright  things 
of  life — the  few  little  pitiful  pleasures  that  make  it 
worth  the  while?  " 

She  closed  her  eyes,  for  the  sight  of  the  love  and 
suffering  on  his  face  was  more  than  she  could  bear. 

"  We  have  to  conform,  no  matter  where  it  leads." 

Adam  paced  across  the  room,  and  returned  to 
confront  her  as  before. 

"  Oh,  I'm  sick  and  tired  of  conforming ! "  he  de- 
clared in  passion.  "  What  could  be  more  utterly 
barren — more  of  a  mockery — than  the  life  we've  led 
— you  and  I?  What  could  be  more  purposeless — 
more  to  be  despised  in  the  eyes  of  Creating  God? 
What  do  we  do  for  the  scheme  of  things?  What  do 

253 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

we  get  out  of  all  the  days,  weeks,  months — the  years 
slipping  by — the  ripest,  best  years  of  our  lives  ?  " 

She  answered  practically :  "  What  should  we  get 
if  we  let  this  mad,  inconsequent  love  of  yours  sweep 
both  of  us  away?  " 

He  leaned  more  fondly  towards  her;  his  eyes  took 
on  a  light  of  something  wondrous. 

"  We'd  get  at  least  a  little  of  the  sweet  of  life, 
my  Beatrice — along  with  the  draughts  of  bitter. 
Until  I  found  you  once  again,  I  was  one  of  the  loneli- 
est men  in  all  the  world." 

He  tried  to  take  her  hands,  but  she  retreated. 

"  I've  said  you  ought  to  have  some  children, 
Adam,"  she  told  him,  more  in  compassion.  "  A  man 
with  your  nature  needs  something  to  pet  and  fondle. 
Your  life  would  be  full  if  you  had  a  family." 

He  began  again  to  pace  the  floor — his  serious  na- 
ture once  more  uppermost,  his  struggling  self  once 
more  battling  for  the  right. 

"  Yes — children — I  ought  to  have  children,"  he 
agreed,  "  but  what  am  I  going  to  do?  " 

"  Have  them !  "     She  said  it  almost  fiercely. 

He  turned.  "  You  can  say  that  now — of  her — 
knowing  how  I  feel?  You  think  it  possible,  after 
what  you  heard  her  say  this  afternoon?  " 

Beatrice  had  caught  at  an  intimation. 

"  Don't  you  love  her  any  longer  ?  " 

It  acted  strangely,  that  question.  His  face  hard- 
ened, paled,  and  was  drawn. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said  oddly.  "  I  don't  know." 
254 


When  Love  is  at  Bay 

"  Perhaps  you  didn't  love  her  when  you  were  mar- 
ried." It  was  just  what  Will  had  ventured  in  one 
of  Adam's  talks. 

Adam  passed  his  hand  across  his  brow.  He  was 
sore  perplexed,  as  his  spirit  returned  to  the  days  of 
his  mating  with  Mae. 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  he  answered  slowly.  "  God,  I've 
tried,  Beatrice — I've  wanted  to  be  honest  and  faith- 
ful. And  sometimes  I  think  I  could  love  her  yet — 
in  a  way — if  only  things  were  right." 

Beatrice  steeled  herself  for  the  cause. 

"  Then  make  them  right !  " 

But  a  vision  of  Mae  as  he  should  find  her  at  home 
came  trailing  damply  across  his  inner  vision.  He 
had  tried  a  mild  assertion  of  his  natural  prerogatives 
with  his  wife  before — and  failed. 

"  Oh,  what's  the  use  ?  "  he  said.  "  When  a  woman 
uses  her  weakness  as  her  one  eternal  argument,  what 
can  you  do?  I  can't  fight  that — I  can't  play  the 
brute — the  natural,  God  directed  savage.  I'm  abso- 
lutely helpless ! "  He  sat  down,  his  attitude  one  of 
hopeless  dejection  in  the  face  of  the  problem 
confronted. 

Her  compassion  was  inevitable.  She  had  never 
loved  him  more,  despite  her  recent  trial.  She  felt 
how  hopeless  was  his  plight. 

"  Dear  Adam,"  she  said,  "  I'm  sorry." 

He  was  once  more  on  his  feet  and  facing  her 
frankly. 

"  I  was  cheated — and  always  have  been  cheated," 
255 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

he  said.  "  Beatrice,  you  know  we  should  have  mar- 
ried. And  now — now — why  should  I  have  no  happi- 
ness? I  ought  to  have  children — yes,  you  are  right, 
but  that  isn't  all.  I  want  something  more.  I  want 
a  mate — a  mate  like  you,  that  understands — a  mate 
to  love  with  all  my  soul  and  body — a  mate  to  match 
the  tempest  and  calm  of  my  being — the  mate  I  love 
with  every  wild  drop  of  my  blood !  " 

He  had  suddenly  hurled  away  the  chair  and 
clasped  her  in  his  arms. 

"  Adam,"  she  cried  to  him,  struggling  to  wrench 
herself  free.  "  Adam  !  " 

"  Beatrice,  it  can't  be  helped !  "  he  answered  pas- 
sionately, "  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I  love  you !  "  He 
kissed  her  on  the  lips. 

But  despite  it  all,  his  strong,  mad  love  and  her  own 
vast  riot  of  the  blood,  she  battled  to  set  herself 
free. 

"  Oh,  you  are  cruel,"  she  said  to  him,  pantingly — 
"  you're  cruel,  Adam — you're  cruel." 

He  still  held  her  partially  to  him. 

"  Ah,  don't  say  that." 

"  You  are,  you  are !  "  she  answered,  her  voice  all 
but  breaking  as  she  spoke. 

"  Beatrice,  Beatrice,"  he  said  to  her  thickly, 
"  don't  you  wish  to  be  loved?  " 

She  freed  herself  entirely  and  retreated  from  him 
backwards.  Her  eyes  were  blazing  with  the  con- 
flict in  her  soul,  where  love  and  her  conscience 
battled. 

256 


When  Love  is  at  Bay 

"  Every  woman  wants  to  be  loved,"  she  told  him 
honestly,  "  but  I  don't  wish  to  be  loved  this  way." 

He  came  and  took  her  hand.  "  It's  the  only  way 
I  know.  I  love  you  reverently.  .1  love  you  pas- 
sionately— with  all  the  strength  of  my  being." 

"  It's  all  just  passion,"  she  answered — "  nothing 
but  passion." 

His  eyes  became  more  softened. 

"  It  isn't,  Beatrice.  I  love  you  with  every  tender 
and  generous  impulse  of  my  being.  I'd  do  anything 
in  the  world  to  make  you  happy." 

Once  more  she  escaped  from  his  hold. 

"  Then  leave  me,  Adam — go  home.  I  know  you 
can  be  generous — generous  enough  to  spare  me — 
spare  us  both — to  stay  away  and  let  this  passion  die. 
I  want  your  friendship.  I  want  to  keep  you  as 
you've  always  been — a  clean,  sweet,  honest  man ! " 
She  said  it  with  an  almost  holy  intensity  and  sin- 
cerity that  chilled  all  the  lawlessness  of  his  being. 

He  was  clearly  distraught — clearly  struggling 
with  himself,  as  he  sat  on  a  chair  and  leaned  with  his 
face  in  his  hands. 

"  Oh,  Beatrice,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  know  what  to 
do.  You  don't  know  how  I've  fought  this  off— 
fought  it  and  fought  it — and  failed !  It's  terrible 
to  love  like  this — terrible  in  its  sweetness  and  its 
pain.  I've  been  an  absolutely  faithful  man  and 
husband — but  oh,  I'm  so  sick  of  the  game !  " 

She  came  to  the  point  again  with  a  practical 
mind,  divested  absolutely  of  self-interest. 

257 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

"  Then  why  not  get  a  separation  ?  " 

The  suggestion  came  as  nothing  new  to  his  mind. 
He  had  thought  upon  that  as  upon  the  other  phases 
of  his  problem. 

"  There  isn't  the  slightest  ground  for  a  legal  di- 
vorce. But  if  there  were,  when  a  woman  pleads  her 
broken  health — when  she  says,  '  Very  well,  strike  a 
weak,  defenseless  creature,  sick  and  a  nervous  wreck ' 
— what  in  God's  name  can  a  decent  man  do — a  man 
who  wants  the  respect  of  his  friends  and  some  small 
self-approval?  " 

Beatrice,  too,  sat  down.  She  had  no  answer  to  his 
query. 

"  I'm  too  tired  to  think — I'm  afraid  I  can't  help 
you  to-day.  But  I  beg  you  to  go.  I  beg  you  to 
forget  this  love  that  can  only  bring  us  pain." 

He  arose  and  came  to  her  again. 

"  Forget !  Beatrice,  you  might  as  well  ask  the 
fragrance  to  desert  the  rose.  You'd  better  bid  me 
die,  dear,  than  go  on  living — and  forget.  You  don't 
know  what  it  means,  perhaps,  when  I  tell  you  that 
I  love  you !  " 

Despite  himself  he  took  her  hands  once  more,  and 
kissed  them,  palms  and  fingers. 

She  had  risen,  the  better  to  protect  herself.  But 
she  was  weakened  by  the  struggle  against  herself 
and  him. 

"  Oh,  I  wish  you  wouldn't,"  she  said.  "  It  worries 
me  so." 

His  love  leaped  hotly,  as  she  seemed  no  longer  to 
258 


When  Love  is  at  Bay 

fight.  He  could  not,  for  the  life  of  him,  restrain  it 
five  minutes  in  check. 

"  Don't  you  know  that  love  is  glorious  ?  "  he  mur- 
mured, folding  her  tenderly  nearer.  "  Don't  you 
know  it's  the  warm,  rich  wine  of  life?  You  couldn't 
wish  my  love  to  die." 

"  Yes — I  ought  to  wish  to  have  it  die,"  she  told 
him,  in  her  clinging  to  the  right.  "  All  my  life  I've 
longed  to  be  loved  as  you  say  you  love  me — but  I 
mustn't,  Adam — oh,  I  mustn't !  " 

He  folded  her  closer. 

"  We  can't  fight  it  off,  Beatrice."  His  eyes  and 
his  voice  were  vibrant  with  passion  made  nearly  di- 
vine. "  We're  helpless  in  the  hands  of  Fate  and  a 
higher  law  than  man's." 

She  struggled  as  before. 

"  Oh,  please  go,  Adam — please." 

He  released  her  partially,  but  her  eyes  were  held 
to  his  for  a  long,  tremendous  moment — a  moment 
of  struggle,  tumultuous  joy,  and  frightened  lawless- 
ness— a  moment  of  silent  confession  that  could  not  be 
denied.  Then  Beatrice  lowered  her  gaze,  her  face 
suffused  with  the  flame  of  life  that  had  leaped  to 
the  welcome  of  his  love. 

He  released  her,  all  but  her  hands,  and  stood  a 
little  off.  Her  appeal  and  a  tremulous  fear  in 
her  whole  sensitive  being  had  made  of  his  love 
a  tender  thing  that  must  needs  alarm  her  no 
further. 

"  I'll  go,"  he  said  to  her  simply.  And  after  a 
259 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

moment  he  added :     "  You  are  coming  to  the  house 
to-morrow,  to  remain  for  two  or  three  days?  " 

New  frights  returned  at  the  prospect. 

"  I  hope  not.     No,  no — I  shall  have  to  refuse." 

He  still  retained  her  hands. 

"  It  would  make  me  very  happy,  Beatrice." 

"  I  cannot.  I  mustn't !  "  she  answered.  "  Oh, 
that  would  be  madness  !  " 

He  looked  at  her  ardently,  intently. 

"  I  want  you  to  come.  It  will  seem  so  right,  so 
natural  to  have  you  there." 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  no,  no,  no — don't  ask  it, 
Adam.  I  can't — I  won't!  I  shall  'phone  I  cannot 
come.  Now  please  don't  stay  any  longer." 

He  did  not  answer  at  once.  He  merely  held  her 
hands  and  gazed  upon  her.  Then  he  said : 

"  Beatrice,  I  want  you  to  come.  Remember,  I 
want  you  to  come."  He  kissed  her  hands,  adding: 
"  Good-by — beloved." 

"  Good-by,"  she  answered.  "  Try  to  forgive  me, 
if  I  hurt  you — and  thank  you  for  the  flowers." 

Adam  wavered,  trembling  where  he  stood.  The 
impulse  to  take  her  once  more  in  his  arms  was  all  but 
overwhelming.  Only  the  knowledge  that,  weak  as 
she  was,  and  helpless,  she  wished  above  all  things  to 
be  spared  another  trial — only  this  restrained  the 
madness  in  his  being.  He  dropped  her  hands  sud- 
denly— as  his  only  means  of  salvation,  caught  up  his 
hat  and  coat  in  an  impulse  of  resolve,  fled  to  the 
door — and  was  gone. 

260 


When  Love  is  at  Bay 

Beatrice  stood  where  he  had  left  her,  gazing 
blankly  at  the  wall.  Slowly  she  crossed  the  floor,  a 
strange,  poignant  loneliness  instantly  in  possession 
of  her  being.  She  opened  a  crevice  barely  wide 
enough  to  hear  his  last  faint  footsteps  in  retreat. 
Then  she  closed  the  door,  to  lean  against  the  frame, 
hid  her  face  in  her  arm  and  sobbed  in  a  choked 
despair. 

She  leaned  there  still  when  her  splendid  control 
had  again  assumed  its  sway.  For  a  long,  long 
time  she  did  not  move,  while  the  darkness  closed  in 
upon  the  room. 

The  telephone  bell,  jangling  harshly  on  her  senses, 
aroused  her  with  a  start.  She  pulled  herself  to- 
gether wearily,  and  proceeded  to  answer  the  call. 

It  came  from  the  agent  of  the  studio,  once  more 
importuning  for  the  rent. 

"  No,  I  haven't  received  the  check,"  said  Beatrice, 
hopelessly.  "  I'm  very  sorry.  ...  I  hope  to 
get  some  money  in  the  morning.  .  .  .  I'll  do 
everything  I  can."  She  suddenly  thought  of  Mae, 
and  the  promised  payment  in  advance.  The  hound- 
ing of  the  agent  was  not  to  be  endured.  She  could 
not  withstand  the  pressure  of  things  that  were  bear- 
ing on  her  life.  "  Oh,  wait,"  she  said,  in  the  instru- 
ment, "  a  client  has  promised  some  money  to-morrow, 
for  work  that  I  am  doing.  I'll  get  the  money  then. 
.  .  .  Yes,  I'll  get  the  money  and  send  it  in  at 
once.  Good-by." 

She  turned  from  the  'phone  with  a  gesture  of 
261 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

resignation,  came  to  the  table,  took  up  Babe's  par- 
cel of  potatoes,  and  was  starting  for  the  kitchen 
whence  once  again  the  telephone  demanded  her 
attention. 

It  was  Mae  who  spoke  across  the  wire.  She  had 
been  to  her  doctor,  received  his  consent  to  the  sit- 
tings at  home,  and  therefore  expected  to  have  the 
painting  at  her  miniature  resumed  the  following  day. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Beatrice,  listlessly,  with  no 
strength  left  for  resistance.  "  Is  there  really  any 
need  of  my  remaining  all  night  in  your  house. 
Couldn't  I  arrange  to  call  in  the  morning  and — 
Oh,  very  well.  Good-by." 

Coming  to  the  table  now  she  suddenly  knelt  upon 
the  floor,  took  the  photograph  of  Adam  from  the 
book  where  she  had  placed  it,  and,  kissing  it  wildly, 
pressed  it  first  against  her  cheek,  and  then  upon  her 
breast,  before  she  sank  there  in  abandon  with  her 
arms  tight  folded  about  it. 

Then  darkness  enveloped  the  place. 


262 


CHAPTER    XXIH 

THE   NIGHT   OF   THE   DOG 

THE  following  day  was  wet  and  cold.  Beatrice 
worked  all  morning  on  her  calendars,  delivered  a 
parcel  at  noon,  received  a  check  for  orders  previously 
executed,  and  sent  the  money  there  and  then  to  be 
applied  against  her  rent.  She  ate  no  luncheon  at 
all. 

Expecting  to  go  to  the  Croswells'  home  at  two, 
she  was  blocked  by  Mae,  who  begged  her  on  the  tele- 
phone to  come  instead  at  four,  as  the  day  had  de- 
pressed her  spirits  and  she  was  barely  out  of  bed. 

At  four  Beatrice  was  waiting  in  the  room  where 
she  and  Adam  had  met.  The  maid  brought  Mae's 
excuses,  and  another  long  wait  was  begun.  Babe 
was  away  at  a  tea  and  Adam  was  still  at  his  office. 

At  length,  when  the  light  of  day  was  all  but  ob- 
scured by  the  coming  of  twilight  and  the  deeper 
massing  of  the  clouds,  Mae  appeared.  She  was 
far  more  languorous  than  usual — all  by  the  doctor's 
orders.  For  fifteen  minutes  she  submitted  to  the 
nerve-wracking  ordeal  of  posing  in  any  attitude  of 
comfort  she  desired,  and  then  begged  off  for  the  day. 

Beatrice  had  come  prepared  to  remain  for  the 
263 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

night.  Despite  the  warning  of  her  intuitions, 
and  certain  underlying  fears  for  what  might  ensue, 
she  could  not  altogether  subdue  a  reckless  sort  of 
exultation  in  her  veins  at  the  thought  of  dining, 
visiting,  almost  living  here  in  his  home  with  Adam. 
She  carried  her  paints  to  the  fine,  large  apartments 
appointed  to  her  uses,  and  changed  her  dress  for  the 
one  fine  gown  she  possessed.  If  her  action  required 
a  species  of  justification  in  her  mind,  it  was  readily 
supplied  by  half  a  score  of  arguments. 

Babe  and  Adam  returned  to  the  house  together, 
arriving  barely  with  sufficient  time  to  prepare  them- 
selves for  dinner. 

Mae,  having  thought  she  should  rather  enjoy  the 
role  of  hostess  at  the  board,  determined  it  might  per- 
haps exhaust  her  utterly,  and  sent  her  excuses 
instead. 

Adam,  Babe,  and  Beatrice  dined  alone.  The  din- 
ner, while  unpretentious,  was  nevertheless  a  dainty 
repast,  perfectly  served  and  warmed  by  certain 
luscious  wines  of  Adam's  own  selection.  And  if 
Beatrice,  dressed  with  exquisite  taste,  appeared  to 
Adam  far  more  beautiful  than  ever  before  in  her 
life,  the  effect  was  singularly  heightened  when  the 
comfort  and  wine  and  sumptuous  appointments  had 
added  their  magic  to  her  charms. 

Her  eyes  had  taken  on  a  luster  of  marvelous  bril- 
liancy. Her  cheeks  had  tinted  like  a  girl's,  with 
delicate  rose  blooms,  that  strayed  with  enchanting 
movement.  Never  had  Adam  seen  lips  so  red  and 

264 


The  Night  of  the  Dog 

tremulous  with  life.  Never  had  Beatrice  answered 
to  the  smile  of  things  cozy  and  hospitable  with  ra- 
diance of  more  subtle  bewitchment. 

The  dinner  was  calmly  prolonged — for  Adam 
knew  the  finest  arts  of  epicurean  appreciation.  At 
half  after  seven  Annie,  the  maid,  was  clearing  the 
library  chairs  of  the  scattered  papers  that  Adam 
had  tossed  about  in  careless  haste. 

Mae  came  in  upon  her  unexpectedly,  almost 
wrought  to  excitement.  She  was  dressed  in  a  flowing 
tea  gown  of  extraordinary  richness  and  cost. 

"  Annie,"  she  said,  in  astonishment,  not  unmingled 
with  reproach,  "  haven't  you  spoken  to  anyone  yet 
about  taking  Fifi  out  for  a  walk?  " 

"  They  are  still  at  dinner,  Ma'am,"  said  the  maid. 

"  But  don't  you  know  that  Fifi  hasn't  been  out 
since  twelve  o'clock?  " 

"  Yes,  Ma'am."  She  continued  tidying  the  room. 
"  It  rains." 

"  Rains  ?  "  said  Mae.  "  Fifi  loves  a  little  rain. 
And  here  I  ought  to  be  in  bed  this  minute  and  so 
worried  over  Fifi  I  simply  cannot  rest.  Will  you 
please  go  at  once  and  tell  Miss  Nickerson " 

Babe  appeared  at  the  door,  in  search  for  a  cer- 
tain magazine  containing  a  note  received  from  Paul 
which  she  did  net  care  to  leave  around. 

"  Oh,  here  you  are  at  last ! "  said  Mae.  "  I'm 
surprised  and  hurt  to  think  you've  neglected  Fifi  so 
thoughtlessly ! " 

Annie  disappeared. 

265 


The  Pillar*  of  Eden 

"What's  the  matter  with  Fifi?  "  Babe  inquired. 
"  Has  he  got  another  flea?  " 

Mae  burned  with  indignation. 

"  He  hasn't  been  out  of  this  house  since  noon  to- 
day— and  you  know  he  can't  be  well  without  his 
exercise ! " 

Babe  found  her  magazine  and  tucked  it  up  be- 
neath her  arm. 

"  You  don't  get  any  exercise,"  she  answered 
quietly.  "  If  you  even  took  him  out  yourself — 

"  You  don't  wish  to  take  him,  that  is  what  you 
mean,"  Mae  interrupted,  "  and  I  am  so  worried  I 
came  all  the  way  in  here  about  it ! " 

Babe  had  a  ready  defense. 

"  Well,  I'm  expecting — somebody  may  call,  and 
it's  raining,  and  you  knew  I  was  going  to  Mrs. 
Bronson's  for  the  night." 

Mae  arose,  weakly. 

"  You  know  I'm  too  weak  to  argue.  You  prefer 
to  neglect  both  me  and  Fifi.  I  don't  mind  how  you 
treat  me,  for  a  few  days  longer — I  can  endure  it — 
some  way — but  a  poor  dumb  animal " 

"  Oh,  I'll  take  him  out,"  Babe  interrupted.  "  But 
I'll  tell  you  right  now  that  he  isn't  going  to  get 
nervous  prostration !  I've  found  another  dog  for 
him  to  fight !  " 

Mae  gazed  at  her  in  horror. 

"My  Fifi  fighting?" 

"  You  bet  he  does!     It's  the  only  fun  he  ever  has  !  " 

Mae  closed  her  eyes.  "  Thank  goodness,"  she  said, 
266 


The  Night  of  the  Dog 

"  you  won't  be  able  to  find  another  dog  this  rainy 
uight ! " 

Babe  was  equal  to  that. 

"  Don't  you  fool  yourself.  The  other  dog  is  a 
water  dog.  Where  is  the  flealess  Fifi  ?  " 

Mae  went  at  once  and  rang  the  bell. 

"  You  shan't  take  him  out !  "  she  declared.  *'  You 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  such  brutality !  " 

Babe  laughed  deliciously. 

"  You're  waking  up,  Aunt  Mae.  I  wish  I  could 
bring  them  both  in  here  and  sic  them  on.  It  would 
make  you  think  of  something  else  besides  your 
nerves ! " 

Annie  appeared,  in  response  to  Mae's  summons. 

Mae  addressed  her  promptly. 

"  Kindly  tell  Mr.  Croswell  I  wish  to  see  him  at 
once." 

"  Yes,  Ma'am,"  said  Annie,  and  she  went. 

"  Poor  old  Uncle !  "  said  Babe.  "  I  don't  see  how- 
he  stands  it.  If  I  was  your  husband  you  wouldn't 
have  such  a  cinch." 

Mae  turned  upon  her,  almost  with  spirit.  "  You 
ought  to  be  ashamed,  the  way  you  talk  to  me !  I 
never  heard  anything  like  it  in  my  life!  You've 
just  been  permitted  to  go  on  saying  these  things 
until  you're  utterly  spoiled ! " 

Babe  stood  her  ground. 

"  You'll  see  if  I'm  not  right.  People  don't  like 
people  that  make  themselves  sick  by  thinking  they're 
sick  all  the  time." 

267 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

Adam,  who  had  remained  at  the  table  with  Beatrice, 
enjoying  a  moment  of  conventional  calm  with  his 
freshly  lighted  cigar,  came  in,  fully  stored  with 
good-nature. 

"  Hello,"  he  said  to  Mae,  heartily,  "  remained  up 
after  all,  did  you?  Fine!  Come  on,  let's  all  go  to 
the  parlor  and  have  some  music.  You  haven't 
played  for  months." 

"  Not  to-night,"  said  Mae.     "  I  only  came " 

"  Oh,  come  on,"  Adam  interrupted.  "  Let's  see  if 
we  can't 

"  Now,  please,  don't  be  absurd,"  said  Mae.  "  You 
know  I  haven't  the  strength,  and  I've  just  dis- 
covered that  Fifi  hasn't  been  out  of  the  house  since 
noon." 

"  Oh,  hang  Fifi,"  said  Adam,  carelessly.  "  Still 
alive,  isn't  he?  Come  on,  let's  go  and  have  a  good, 
old-fashioned  evening." 

Babe  was  awaiting  developments.  Mae  waxed 
more  hurt  in  tone. 

"  If  you're  going  to  assume  this  bantering  air 
about  poor  Fifi " 

"  I'm  not  assuming  any  air  at  all,"  Adam  assured 
her,  fast  losing  patience.  "  I  just  feel  sort  of 
youngish  to-night,  and  if  you  would  only  come  and 
play » 

Mae  broke  in  and  all  but  broke  down  as  well. 

"  You  know  I  can't  do  anything  of  the  sort.  I 
couldn't — I  simply  couldn't,  with  Fifi  on  my  mind. 
And  you  know  I'm  too  nervous  to  be  worried." 

268 


The  Night  of  the  Dog 

"  But  it's  raining  outside  and  you  have  a  guest 
in  the  house.  I  should  think  Fifi  might  possibly  sur- 
vive an  in-door  snooze  without  fatal  results." 

Mae  started  to  cry,  and  enacted  the  role  of  one 
controlling  her  emotions  with  the  greatest  fortitude. 
She  sank  again  in  her  chair. 

"  Oh,  laugh  at  me.  I  haven't  the  strength  to  re- 
sent it.  A  sick  woman's  wishes  are  of  no  conse- 
quence whatever." 

Babe  exclaimed :  "  Oh,  gee !  " 

Adam  crossed  to  the  chair  where  Mae  was  sitting 
and  patted  her  gently  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Come,  dear,"  he  said,  "  let's  try  to  be  a  little 
reasonable." 

Mae  drew  away  as  before. 

"  You  needn't  pet  me.  I  know  what  you  mean. 
You  do  not  wish  to  give  me  this  pitiful  little  bit 
of  happiness,  when  you  know  I  wasn't  even  well 
enough  to  dine  with  the  family  and  am  all  unstrung 
with  worry." 

Adam  still  had  hopes  of  applying  reason  to  the 
case. 

"  I  wish  to  do  everything  I  can,  but  Fifi  isn't  of 
such  overwhelming  importance." 

"  No — nothing  of  mine  is  of  any  importance." 
Mae  rose  with  an  effort  from  her  chair.  "  Never 
mind.  Weak  as  I  am  I'll  try  to  take  him  out 
myself." 

"  Hurray !  "  cried  Babe. 

Adam  interposed  to  prevent  his  wife  from  going. 
269 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

"  You  can't  do  anything  of  the  sort,  on  a  rainy 
night." 

Babe  spoke  up  again.  "  Why,  of  course  she  can. 
It  will  do  her  good." 

Mae  staggered  a  little  towards  the  door  and  put 
her  hand  to  her  head.  Then  she  returned  to  her 
chair,  into  which  she  all  but  collapsed. 

"  You've  made  me  so  weak  by  opposing  my  wishes 
that  I'll  have  to  give  it  up,"  she  told  him  weakly. 
"  Let  it  go.  I  have  no  strength  to  fight." 

Adam,  pushed  once  more  to  his  old  position,  gave 
way  as  he  always  had. 

"  Oh,  I'll  take  the  brute !  Babe,  please  ring  for 
Annie." 

Babe,  thoroughly  disgusted,  pushed  the  bell. 

Mae  was  sitting  with  her  eyes  closed  in  her  sort  of 
weakness. 

"  No,  you  needn't  take  him,"  she  said  faintly. 
"  I  don't  want  anyone  to  do  anything  for  me  un- 
willingly. Annie  can  take  me  to  my  room.  What 
is  one  more  disappointment  in  my  helplessness  ?  " 

Adam  assumed  his  old  familiar  role. 

"  Forgive  me,  Mae,"  he  begged  her  tenderly.  "  I 
didn't  intend  to  speak  roughly.  I'll  take  him  out, 
of  course." 

Mae  put  on  her  forgiving  demeanor. 

"It  isn't  as  if  I  didn't  ask  Babe  first,  but  she 
refused." 

"I  didn't!"  said  Babe.  "I  told  you  I'd  take 
him  out,  but  I  said  I'd  find  a  dog  he  fights.  I  don't 

270 


The  Night  of  the  Dog 

see  any  sense,  though,  in  making  people  uncomfort- 
able for  a  darned  old  dog !  " 

Annie  appeared  in  response  to  the  bell. 

"  Oh,  take  Mrs.  Croswell  to  her  room,  if  you  please, 
Annie,"  said  Adam,  "  and  then  get  Fifi  ready  to 
go  out."  He  kissed  his  wife,  who  had  risen  from 
her  chair.  He  added :  "  Good-night." 

Annie  came  at  once  to  give  Mae  her  superfluous 
support. 

Mae  looked  beseechingly  at  her  husband. 

"  You  are  sure  you  really  wish  to  give  Fifi  and 
me  this  little  pleasure?  " 

"  Quite  sure,"  said  Adam,  giving  her  one  more  pat 
on  the  shoulder.  "  Don't  worry  any  more." 

"  Forgive  me  for  being  so  weak  and  helpless,"  said 
Mae.  "  Good-night." 

Babe  said:  "Good-night,  Aunt  Mae.  You'd 
better  remember  what  I  said." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

GOADED  SOULS 

ADAM,  watching  Mae  depart,  with  ill-concealed 
loathing  for  this  utterly  groundless  attitude  she 
was  taking  more  and  more,  began  to  pace  the 
room. 

"  Good  God ! "  he  said,  more  to  himself  than  to 
Babe. 

But  Babe  replied: 

"  That's  just  what  I  say.  I  told  Aunt  Mae  that's 
the  way  you'd  begin  to  feel  pretty  soon." 

Adam  apparently  failed  to  hear,  as  he  strode  up 
and  down  the  rug. 

"  Every  impulse  of  affection  killed  like  this !  The 
damnable  farce  of  such  an  existence !  " 

"Why  don't  you  make  her  stop  it?"  Babe  in- 
quired earnestly.  "  I'd  give  her  a  good  hard 
spanking." 

Adam's  hands  were  pressed  against  his  head,  and 
he  tangled  his  fingers  in  his  hair. 

"  How  much  of  this  sort  of  thing  can  human  na- 
ture stand?  " 

"  It's  more  than  half  your  own  fault,"  Babe  in- 
formed him,  quietly.  "  You  give  in  all  the  time,  and 

272 


Goaded  Souls 

that's  the  very  best  way  in  the  world  to  spoil  a 
woman  or  a  horse." 

Adam  still  paid  no  attention. 

"  Nothing — nothing  but  this  sort  of  thing  from 
one  month's  end  to  another !  " 

Babe  sat  down. 

"  You  bet  the  Indians  don't  fool  around  that  way 
with  their  squaws." 

Adam  halted.  "  They're  right !  We've  civilized 
our  women  out  of  all  usefulness,  health,  and  reason ! 
We  ought  to  get  back  to  the  days  of  dragging 
them  out  to  a  cave  in  the  rocks  and  making  them 
work  for  a  living !  " 

"  Gee !  "  said  Babe,  "  that's  the  kind  of  a  man  I'd 
like ! — big  and  strong  and  lively !  You  bet  he'd 
make  you  respect  him !  " 

Adam  almost  smiled,  but  his  mood  was  still  too 
grim. 

"  Instead  of  that  your  big  strong  man  is  the  weak- 
ling of  the  family — doing  dog-duty,  out  in  the  rain  !  " 

Babe  rose  from  her  chair  at  once. 

"  Oh,  I'll  take  Fifi  out  for  you,  Uncle  Adam,"  she 
said.  "  I'd  do  anything  in  the  world  for  you." 

"  No,  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  spoil  your  even- 
ing," he  answered.  "  Aren't  you  going  over  to  the 
Bronson's  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  not  till  after — maybe  someone  will 
call." 

Adam  looked  at  her  indulgently. 

"  Paul,  hey  ?  You  can't  go  out  with  any  dog — 
273 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

that's  final.     Where  is  the  brute  that  likes  to  fight 
with  Fifi?  " 

Babe  lowered  her  glance.  "  There  isn't  any  such 
dog.  I'm  sorry." 

He  took  her  chin  in  his  hand  and  shook  it  fondly. 

"  You  clever  little  rogue !  I  think  I  must  be  a 
dead  one."  Her  naivete  had  completely  restored  his 
good  humor. 

"  I've  been  expecting  to  see  you  wake  up,  Uncle 
Adam,"  she  said.  "  You're  too  darn  good." 

Adam   was    starting   to   say,   "  It's   a   dangerous 

thing "    when    Beatrice    appeared    at    the   open 

door  that  led  to  the  hall  and  other  rooms. 

"  Oh,  I  hope  I'm  not  intruding,"  she  said.  "  I 
thought  I'd  try  again  to  read  my  book."  She  had 
the  novel  in  her  hand. 

"Intruding?  Not  in  the  least,"  Adam  hastened 
to  assure  her.  "  Please  make  yourself  at  home,  and 
forgive  me  for  running  away.  Sit  here,  if  you'd 
like  to  read."  He  drew  a  large  chair  to  the  table. 
"  Babe  and  I  were  just  discussing  the  great  Ameri- 
can problem.  The  topic  was  how  to  raise  a  dog, 
though  married." 

"Oh!"  said  Babe.  "Uncle  Adam's  fooling.  I 
was  just  about  to  go  and  find  you  for  a  talk.  Is 
your  book  any  good?  " 

Beatrice  had  come  to  the  chair. 

"  I'm  trying  to  read  it."  She  passed  the  novel 
over,  as  Annie  appeared  in  the  door. 

"  Fifi's  ready,  sir,"  she  announced. 
274 


Goaded  Souls 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Adam.  He  added  to  Beatrice : 
"  May  I  beg  you  to  excuse  me  for  fifteen  minutes 
while  I  entertain  the  terrier?  " 

Beatrice  nodded,  and  smiled.     "  Certainly." 

Babe  called :     "  Can't  you  lose  him,  Uncle  Adam?  " 

Adam  answered,  "  No  such  luck,"  and  then  he 
went. 

Beatrice  rose  to  look  about  the  room.  Babe,  with 
the  book  in  hand,  turned  back  the  cover. 

"  I  think  it's  a  shame  the  way  Uncle  Adam  is 
treated,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Sloane  gave  you  this 
novel,  I  see." 

"  What  a  beautiful  home  to  live  in ! "  Beatrice  an- 
swered irrelevantly. 

Babe  was  skimming  swiftly  into  the  story,  and 
turning  the  pages  in  flocks. 

"  Is  there  any  hero  in  the  old  thing,  anywhere  ?  " 

Beatrice  continued  with  her  silent  inspection  of 
the  room. 

"  What  an  awful  lot  of  pages  with  nothing  do- 
ing !  "  said  Babe,  and  she  hastened  onward  towards 
the  volume's  end.  "  Why  the  hero's  already  mar- 
ried !  and  it  doesn't  end  happily !  I  love  sad  stories, 
but  I  want  the  lovers  to  be  happy  in  the  end." 

Beatrice  started. 

"  The  lovers?     Oh,  yes— in  the  book." 

Babe  closed  the  volume  and  placed  it  on  the  table. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  Aunt  Mae  and  Uncle 
Adam,  anyway?  " 

Beatrice  sat  down. 

275 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

"  Why,  I  don't  know,  Babe.  What  do  you 
mean?  " 

"  Oh,  everybody  must  know  that  Aunt  Mae's  the 
limit,"  said  Babe,  in  her  customary  candor.  "  I  don't 
see  how  Uncle  Adam  stands  it." 

Beatrice  permitted  herself  to  say  no  more  than — 

"  She  doesn't  seem  very  well." 

"  She's  just  got  chronic  imagination,"  Babe  re- 
plied with  spirit.  "  Can't  sit  for  her  picture,  can't 
come  to  dinner,  can't  do  anything  but  make  every- 
body tired — and  send  Uncle  out  with  the  dog !  Some 
day  I'll  bet  he'll  get  good  and  mad.  I  wish  he 
could  find  his  old  sweetheart !  " 

Beatrice  felt  her  heart  give  a  leap  in  her 
bosom. 

"  Why— but— Babe " 

"  Well,  I  just  do !  It  would  make  Aunt  Mae  get 
busy  to  hold  her  job.  I  just  wish  they  could  meet 
and  find  they  loved  each  other  still !  " 

The  color  left  Beatrice's  face,  for  a  moment.  She 
asked : 

"  Have  you  ever  stopped  to  think  it  might  be  very 
hard — on  the  old  sweetheart  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  said  Babe.  "  But  that  bitter-sweet 
happiness  is  awfully  romantic." 

Beatrice  took  the  fresh  young  hand  and  held  it 
fondly. 

"  Suppose  the  sweetheart  were  poor?  Suppose 
she  had  always  had  to  work?  Suppose  she  had  never 
been  happy  since  the  days — the  days  when  they  were 

276 


Goaded  Souls 

sweethearts — and  then  she  were  to  come — and  find 
him  married?  Then,  dear  Babe — what  then?  " 

"  Oh,  I'd  feel  real  sorry  for  them  both." 

"  But  how  would  you  feel  if  they  were  tempted — 
if  their  love  grew  too  strong  to  be  resisted? — if  your 
unsuspecting  Aunt  Mae "  She  broke  off  sud- 
denly and  laughed,  rising  from  her  chair.  "  What 
nonsense  for  us  to  be  talking ! " 

"  Oh,  I  like  it,"  said  Babe.  "  It  would  serve  Aunt 
Mae  dead  right.  She  doesn't  love  anything  in  the 
world  but  just  herself." 

"  You  may  be  mistaken,"  said  Beatrice,  once  more 
in  the  throes  of  her  own  increasing  love.  "  I  should 
think  a  woman  could  love  a  man  so  much — and  work 
so  hard  to  please  him — for  all  that  your  uncle  ap- 
pears so  eager  to  provide !  " 

Babe  smiled :  "  I  hope  to  the  dickens  I  get  one  half 
as  good  as  Uncle  Adam.  I'd  just  like  to  see  one 
come  along  and  say " 

"  Oh,  how  do  you  do  ?  "  interrupted  a  voice  from 
the  door. 

It  was  Paul. 


277 


CHAPTER  XXV 

TICKETS  FOR   TWO 

BABE  turned  and  greeted  him  gladly. 

"Why,  good-evening!  I  was  just  this  minute 
speaking  about —  I  mean  I  was  kind  of  expect- 
ing you'd  come  pretty  soon." 

Paul  met  her  actively  and  took  her  outstretched 
hand,  exchanging  a  nod  and  smile  with  Beatrice. 

"  Say,"  he  said,  when  the  greetings  were  com- 
plete, "  I  want  to  ask  you  both  what  you  think  of 
my  latest  invention.  I  just  now  thought  of  it,  out 
in  the  rain.  It's  to  make  woman's  hats  with  rub- 
ber millinery — flowers,  birds,  fruit — everything  rub- 
ber, so  it  won't  get  spoiled  in  the  wet.  When  you 
stop  to  think  of  it,  there  must  be  fully  five  thousand 
hats  in  New  York  alone,  utterly  ruined  every  time 
it  rains,  and  at  only  one  dollar  per  hat  that  is  five 
thousand  dollars,  and  the  hats  could  be  made — 

"  Heavens  !  "  interrupted  the  practical  Babe,  "  a 
lot  of  tennis  balls,  and  babies'  rattles,  and  garden 
hose  on  your  hat !  What's  the  matter  with  a  patent 
man  going  along  to  take  an  umbrella?" 

Beatrice  was  smiling.  "  I  think  I'll  go  and  see  if 
the  rain  hasn't  stopped." 

278 


Tickets  for  Two 

She  started  without  delay.  Babe  called,  in- 
genuously : 

"  Don't  you  want  your  book?  " 

"  Not  now,  thank  you,"  and  she  disappeared,  still 
smiling. 

Babe  watched  where  she  had  gone.  "  I  just  love 
Mrs.  Graham,"  she  announced,  "  she's  always  so 
thoughtful  and  kind."  She  went  to  the  couch  in  the 
corner,  where  she  sat  herself  down,  expectantly. 

Paul  promptly  followed.  "  She's  all  right,"  he 
admitted.  "  Where's  Adam?  " 

"  He's  out  with  Fifi,  looking  for  trouble." 

Paul  smiled  blandly,  gazing  in  Babe's  honest  eyes. 

"  It's  an  awful  nice  night  to  be  here  with  you." 

"  Is  it  ?  I  suppose  you've  been  most  of  the  after- 
noon with  Frona — at  least  since  office  hours." 

"  I  haven't  seen  her  since  six  o'clock ! "  expostu- 
lated Paul.  "  She  thinks  I'm  in  Brooklyn  to-night." 
And  he  grinned. 

"  Do  you  mean  you  had  to  tell  a  lie  before  you 
dared  come  up  here  to-night?  Has  she  got  such  a 
mortgage  on  you  as  that  ?  " 

Paul  was  almost  indignant.      "  Not  on  your  life !  " 

"  All  the  same,"  said  Babe,  in  her  unvarnished 
way  of  going  at  the  truth,  "  every  time  she  comes 
along  she  just  leads  you  off  as  meek  as  a  bottle  of 
milk." 

"  She  does  not !  "  Paul  declared.  "  Wherever  I 
go  it's  always  of  my  own  free  will  and  accord." 

"  Then  what  did  you  give  her  the  slip  for  to- 
279 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

night?       Don't    you    admit    you    like    her    pretty 
well?  " 

Paul  rose  and  rammed  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 
His  face  took  on  a  look  of  tragedy. 

"  That's  just  it.  If  I  could  only  make  up  my 
mind " 

"  Don't  you  know  whether  you  like  her  or  not?  " 

Paul  kicked  at  the  rug.  "  I  like  her  some,  but  I 
don't  know " 

"  Gee !  "  said  Babe,  "  I  wouldn't  want  anyone  to 
like  me  like  that !  I'd  want  a  man  to  be  so  dead 
in  love  it  would  wake  him  up  in  the  morning,  and 
keep  him  awake  all  night,  and  spoil  his  appetite  all 
day!" 

Paul  sat  down  again,  less  tragical  in  his  manner. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  with  a  grin,  "  I  haven't  eaten  a 
thing  I  liked  all  day." 

Babe  was  hopeful.  "  That's  something  like ! 
Who  was  the  cause  of  it — if  it  was  any  girl  and  not 
maybe  just  your  liver?  " 

Paul  still  kept  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  "  That's 
just  the  point — I'm  not  quite  sure." 

Babe  was  disgusted.  "  You  don't  know  who 
you're  in  love  with.  Are  you  scared  of  Frona?  " 

Paul  rose  and  faced  her  manfully. 

"  Well,  I  should  say  not !  I'd  like  to  see  her  come 
along  to-night  and  attempt  to " 

He  did  not  finish,  for  Frona  came,  as  if  in  re- 
sponse to  his  summons,  and  stood  there  before  him 
in  the  door. 

280 


Tickets  for  Two 

"  I  thought  I  heard  voices,"  she  said,  in  her  lan- 
guid way,  as  she  slowly  entered.  "  Good-evening." 

Babe  had  started  to  her  feet.  "  Oh,  good-even- 
ing," she  said.  "  Just  what  I  thought !  " 

"  Something  about  me?  "  said  their  visitor,  sweetly, 
and  she  turned  to  Paul  with  a  knowing  smile.  "  I 
understood  you  had  to  go  to  Brooklyn  this  even- 
ing." 

Paul  became  very  red  and  snatched  out  his  watch. 

"  Yes,  I And  it's  getting  late,  too.  I've  only 

got  about  five  minutes  left." 

Frona  sat  down,  but  did  not  remove  her  gloves. 
"  You  believe  in  improving  every  moment,  I  see." 

Babe  replied  with  one  of  her  characteristic 
speeches. 

"  He's  trying  to  find  out  who  he's  in  love 
with." 

Paul  blushed  crimson  and  Frona  elevated  her 
brows. 

"  Really?  "  she  said.  "  How  interesting.  Couldn't 
you  help  him,  my  dear?  " 

Babe  was  serious :  "  I  might  if  I  ever  had  the 
time." 

Paul  tried  to  laugh.  "  Ha,  ha,  good  joke,  isn't 
it?  I  really  came  for  a  moment's  talk  with  Adam — 
talk  on  business."  He  pulled  out  his  watch  as  be- 
fore. "  If  he  doesn't  come  pretty  soon " 

Frona  smiled.     "  You'll  have  to  go  to  Brooklyn?  " 

"  Surest  thing  you  know." 

Frona  continued :  "  I  thought,  perhaps,  if  I 
281 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

should  run  across  you  anywhere  you  might  prefer  to 
go  to  the  Wagner  concert.  I  have  tickets." 

Babe  was  aroused  to  a  state  of  rebellion. 

"Oh,  no,  he  can't!  He  was  telling  me  just  now 
how  important  his  trip  to  Brooklyn  was.  Weren't 
you,  Mr.  Price  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Paul,  sitting  down  as  before,  "  I  can't 
get  out  of  it  now." 

Frona  turned  sweetly  to  Babe.  "  Perhaps  you'd 
like  to  go  and  hear  some  music  for  a  change?  " 

"  I've  got  to  go  over  to  the  Bronsons'." 

Conversation  languished.  No  one  spoke  for  sev- 
eral minutes. 

Frona  broke  the  silence.     "  How  time  flies  !  " 

Babe  inquired,  "  Won't  you  be  late  at  the 
concert  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no.  At  a  concert  they  always  put  the  worst 
pieces  first,  expecting  interruptions.  I  was  thinking 
Mr.  Price  might  be  late  in  Brooklyn." 

Paul  arose  with  alacrity,  once  more  consulting  his 
watch.  "  I  guess  I'll  have  to  start  along."  He 
prepared  to  go. 

Frona  did  not  rise  to  bid  him  good-night.  "  If 
you  are  back  by  eleven,  you  might  call  around  at 
the  concert  and  take  me  home.  It's  at  Mendelssohn 
Hall." 

"  Why,  yes — if  I'm  back  in  time,"  said  Paul. 
"  Good-by,"  and  he  went. 

Babe  had  gone  with  him  as  far  as  the  door  and 
given  him  her  hand  at  parting.  She  returned  and 

282 


Tickets  for  Two 

sat  down,  thoroughly  disgusted  and  not  a  little  re- 
sentful of  Frona's  marked  success. 

For  a  moment  the  two  were  silent.  Babe  finally 
simulated  a  gape. 

"What  time  does  the  concert  begin?" 

Frona  made  no  movement  to  depart.  The  concert 
was  the  least  of  her  worries. 

"  Oh,  most  any  time.  .  .  .  Isn't  it  a  funny 
world?" 

"  It  tickles  me  to  death,"  said  Babe,  soberly. 

Frona  tried  another  tack.  "  Do  you  believe  that 
love  is  blind  ?  " 

Babe's  philosophy  cropped  to  the  surface.  "  I 
guess  it  just  shuts  its  eyes  a  little  while — at  first." 

Frona  was  rising  to  go.     "  Well,  I  suppose  I'll  be 

late  if  I  don't  start  pretty Oh,  good-evening, 

Mr.  Sloane,"  she  concluded,  beholding  Will  appear- 
ing at  the  door.     "  How  do  you  do?  " 

Will  came  in  and  greeted  both  in  his  customary 
style  of  gallantry. 

"Well  well,"  he  added  to  Babe,  "it  looks  like 
rain  outside.  I  thought  perhaps  I'd  find  your  uncle 
in." 

"  He'll  be  back  pretty  soon,"  said  Babe.  "  He's 
only  out  hunting  for  a  dog  to  fight  with  Fifi." 

Frona  showed  immediate  sympathy.  "  The  poor 
dogs  in  a  city  never  get  half  enough  attention. 
Well — I  shall  have  to  be  going.  Oh,  Mr.  Sloane, 
do  you  suppose  you'd  care  to  attend  a  concert  this 
evening?  I  have  two  tickets." 

283 


The  Pilhirs  of  Eden 

Will  smiled  and  shook  his  had.  "  Any  other  even- 
ing I  should  find  the  suggestion  irresistible." 

"  You  are  always  so  very  gallant,"  said  Frona. 
"  Well — good-night,  Miss  Nickerson.  Good-night, 
Mr. " 

Adam  came  in  and  interrupted  her  speech. 

"  Hello,"  he  said,  "  hello,  everybody.  How  are  you, 
Will?  Not  going,  Frona?  " 

"  I've  got  tickets  to  a  Wagner  concert,"  she  an- 
swered. "  I  rather  hoped  that  someone Perhaps 

you'd  care  to  go  ?  " 

"Gee!"  said  Babe. 

"  Not  on  your  life !  "  was  Adam's  answer.  "  No 
Rhinemaidens  for  me  in  real  wet  rain  !  "  He  came  to 
the  drawer  where  cigars  were  always  kept  and  drew 
it  open. 

Frona  was  helpless.  "  I  shall  have  to  say  good- 
night again,"  and  she  nodded  from  the  door. 

All  said  good-night,  and  none  were  particularly 
grieved  to  see  her  finally  depart.  Babe  was,  indeed, 
quite  frank. 

"Hum!  If  some  people  wouldn't  jar  the  stewed 
prunes ! " 

Annie  appeared  at  the  door. 

"  Please,  Miss  Nickerson,"  she  said,  "  Mrs.  Bron- 
son  has  sent  her  carriage  to  fetch  you." 

"  Isn't  that  just  lovely  of  her?  "  said  Babe.  "  I'll 
come  right  away.  Good-night,  Uncle  Adam."  and 
she  kissed  him  fondly.  "  Good-night,  Mr.  Sloane," 
and  she  gave  him  her  hand. 

284 


Tickets  for  Two 

Will  rose  hurriedly,  kissing  her  fingers  with  rare 
sincerity  and  grace.  "Good-night,"  he  said. 
"  Good-night,  Miss  Babe." 

"  Oh !  "  she  said,  softly,  "  that's  awfully  nice  and 
old-fashioned,"  and  then  she  went. 


9i5 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

FIRST    AID    TO    THE    SHY 

WILL  resumed  his  seat  and  began  to  smoke  in  nerv- 
ous haste.  He  had  something  important  on  his  mind, 
but  he  could  not  approach  it  abruptly. 

"  What  a  lovable,  honest  little  thing  she  is ! "  he 
said.  "  She's  quite  unique." 

"  And  wise  as  Solomon,"  said  Adam. 

"  Does  she  really  care  very  much  about  Paul?  " 

Adam  puffed  out  a  mouthful  of  smoke. 

"  No  one  will  ever  know  till  sometime  after  they 
are  married." 

"  Then  you  think  they  will  be  married?  "  He  did 
not  greatly  care,  but  it  was  something  near  the  sub- 
ject in  his  mind. 

"  Worse  things  have  happened,"  said  Adam.  "  By 
the  way,  how  about  that  little  affair  of  yours?  " 

Will  arose  at  once  and  began  to  walk  about  the 
room,  making  utterly  perfunctory  examinations  of 
the  trifles  that  he  found. 

"  Well,  the  fact  is — I  dropped  in  to — sort  of " 

"  Talk  it  over,  hey  ?  Haven't  you  fixed  it  up 
yet?" 

286 


First  Aid  to  the  STiy 

"  Not  definitely."  He  smoked  out  volumes  of 
fume. 

"  Isn't  the  business  on  its  feet,  sufficiently  ?  "     He 
had  loaned  Will  several  thousand  dollars  at  a  mo- 
ment of  Sloane's  greatest  need. 
.     "  Yes — oh  yes — thanks  to  your  assistance." 

"  Then  what's  the  matter?  Doesn't  the  lady 
know  that  you're  in  love?  " 

Will  went  over  by  the  table  and  looked  at  the 
lamp. 

"  I  think — she  knows  I  hope  to  be  married." 

"  Well?     What  does  she  say?  " 

"  She  wishes  me  all  kinds  of  happiness.  But  the 
fact  is — she  doesn't  know  who  it  is  that  I — that 
I " 

"  That  you're  in  love  with,"  Adam  supplemented, 
unpoetically.  "  Why  don't  you  tell  her?  Good 
Lord!  women  can't  guess  everything!  Haven't  you 
got  the  nerve?  " 

Will  had  found  the  novel  that  was  lying  on  the 
table — his  gift  to  Beatrice.  In  his  way  he  felt  it 
a  trifling  neglect  that  she  would  leave  it  thus 
around. 

"  Suppose,"  he  said, — "  suppose  she  should  be  in- 
different— as  indifferent  to  my  regard  as  she  might 
be,  say,  to  a  book?  " 

Adam  put  it  more  plainly.  "  Suppose  she  should 
say  no,  is  what  you  mean?  Well,  even  so,  at  least 
you'd  know  where  you  stand." 

Will  put  down  the  novel.     He  smoked  violently. 
287 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

"  Yes — I'd  know  where  I  stand."     He  crossed  to  his 
chair  and  sat  down. 

Adam  looked  at  him  narrowly.  "  You  know  you've 
never  told  me  her  name." 

"  No,"  said  Will.  "  I — I — in  case  of  any  acci- 
dent— defeat — chagrin — you  know,  old  man — I'm 
ashamed  of  being  so  foolishly  sensitive,  but 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right.  I'll  be  best  man  just  the 
same — and  perhaps  I'll  find  out  then."  He  added 
presently :  "  Don't  waste  your  blushes  on  me.  If 
you  can't  march  up  and  ask  her  under  fire,  why  not 
write?  " 

Will's  color  heightened.  "  I've  thought  of  that, 
but — it  doesn't  come  easily,  does  it?  " 

"  It's  easier  than  pulling  alligator's  teeth.  You 
should  just  write  an  ordinary  letter,  after  all. 
Merely  avoid  all  frills  or  any  chance  for  the  lady  to 
mistake  your  meaning." 

Will  consumed  his  cigar  with  wasteful  extrava- 
gance. He  rose  once  more  and  crossed  to  the  table, 
where  again  he  fidgetted  with  the  book. 

"  I've — tried  all  kinds  of  letters,  Adam,"  he  con- 
fessed. "  I  didn't  know  but  what  you  might 

"  Certainly !  "  said  Adam,  with  ready  understand- 
ing. "  I  dictate  letters  all  day  long.  Sit  down  at 
the  desk  and  I'll  fix  you  up  in  about  two  shakes — 
paper  and  all  there  in  the  drawer." 

Will  would  have  hesitated  still.  Adam  commanded 
him  to  sit  and  take  up  his  pen.  Sloane  obeyed 
helplessly. 

288 


First  Aid  to  the  Shy 

"  Now,  then,"  said  Adam,  "  start  it  '  Dear  Carrie  ' 
— if  that  happens  to  be  her  name — otherwise,  of 
course,  something  else.  Got  that  down?" 

Will  nodded  through  his  smoke. 

"  Then  write :  '  You  have  long  known  of  my 
wish  to  speak  to  the  woman  of  my  heart,  concern- 
ing the  most  precious  thing  in  all  the  world — the 
most  sacred  of  all  our  human  emotions — the  one  cer- 
tain gift  of  God — the  love  that  makes  men  and  women 
partners.  I  haven't  much  to  say  to-night,  only 
that  you  are  the  woman  I  love — only  that  more  than 
anything  on  earth  I  wish  you  to  become  my  wife. 
Write  to  me  soon,  and  believe  me  when  I  say  that  no 
matter  what  your  reply  may  be,  you  may  count  on 
my  friendship  till  the  end.  Faithfully  yours ' ' 

Will  wrote  in  silence,  then  leaned  back  weakly  in 
his  chair. 

"  I've  tried  before  to  say  all  this,"  he  confessed, 

"  but Thank  you,  Adam,  from  the  bottom  of 

my  heart." 

Adam  rose.  "  Don't  mention  it,  old  man.  I  wish 
you  a  world  full  of  happiness.  Have  you  signed  it?  " 

"  Why,  no— I " 

"  Sign  it,  man,  sign  it !  Do  you  want  her  to 
think  it  comes  from  a  ghost?  "  He  watched  the 
signature  go  down.  "  Now,  then,  don't  forget  to 
mail  it  when  you  leave  the  house.  There's  a  box  on 
the  corner  below."  He  began  to  pace  the  room  him- 
self, vaguely  hoping  that  Will  might  presently  de- 
part, and  wondering  where  Beatrice  had  gone. 

289 


The  P'dlars  of  Eden 

Will  came  back  to  the  table,  saw  that  Adam's  back 
was  turned,  and  nervously  slipped  his  letter  between 
the  pages  of  the  book  that  Beatrice  had  left  only 
partially  read. 

"  I — I'll  see  that  she  gets  the  letter,"  he  said 
thickly.  "  I — think  I'll  have  to  get  along — some 
unfinished  business,  and " 

Adam  turned,  smiling  and  nodding. 

"Eager  to  post  that  letter,  hey?  All  right,  but 
see  that  you  post  it !  No  more  weakness  in  the 
knees !  "  He  came  to  where  his  friend  was  standing, 
and  smiled  at  him  through  the  smoke.  "  When  it's 
all  fixed  up,  come  around  and  let  me  know." 

Will  offered  his  hand.  "I'll  'phone  if  I  find  I 
can't  wait.  Good-night." 

"  So  long,  old  man,"  said  Adam.  "  Good  luck. 
Don't  forget  your  rubbers.  Love  won't  keep  your 
feet  dry,  no  matter  how  strong  its  hold." 


290 


CHAPTER  XXVH 

THE    LEAPING    FLAME 

ADAM  stood  for  a  time  smoking  reflectively,  when 
Will  had  gone,  a  growing  excitement  rising  in  his 
breast.  Once  more  the  Fates  had  thrown  himself 
and  Beatrice  together,  and  now  with  a  new  and  inti- 
mate element  of  proximity,  with  little,  if  any,  chance 
for  interruption. 

Where  Beatrice  was  he  could  not  know.  He  fan- 
cied he  should  find  her  in  the  parlor.  He  listened. 
Apparently  no  one  was  stirring  in  the  place.  He 
crossed  to  the  mantel-piece,  tossed  away  his  half- 
consumed  cigar,  extinguished  a  few  of  the  lights, 
but  left  an  oil  lamp  burning  on  the  table,  and  was 
turning  to  leave  when  Beatrice  came  to  the  door. 

She  halted  there  in  indecision. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  is  it  time  to  retire?  " 

Adam  immediately  switched  on  the  lights. 

"  Good  Lord,  no.  I  was  coming  to  find  you.  But 
unless  you  prefer  the  parlor " 

She  came  in,  as  ever  with  her  exquisite  grace  of 
movement. 

"  But  I  don't.  I  prefer  this  to  any  room  in  the 
house." 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

u  Good,"  said  Adam.  "  It's  my  favorite  room — 
in  fact  it's  all  mine — the  one  particular  room  of  my 
furnishing."  He  came  towards  her  actively.  "  Let 
me  give  you  this  big  easy-chair." 

Beatrice  took  the  proffered  seat,  sinking  grace- 
fully down  in  its  cushions  and  resting  her  hands  on 
its  arms. 

"  I  found  I'd  forgotten  my  book."  She,  too,  was 
excited  by  the  moment,  almost  without  knowing  why. 
She  only  knew  it  was  marvelously  sweet  to  be 
here,  like  this,  spending  an  evening  of  calm 
— if  only  for  this  once — with  Adam  thus  all  to 
herself. 

Adam  took  the  book  in  hand,  but  his  eyes  were 
fixed  on  her  face.  He  fingered  the  volume  indiffer- 
ently. His  voice  was  deep  and  filled  with  certain 
vibrant  qualities  denoting  his  rising  heart-beat  as 
he  asked  her,  with  a  smile: 

"  Did  you  miss  it  very  sorely  ?  " 

"  The  book?     Not  so  very.     Why?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly. 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  give  you  your  choice. 
Which,  then,  is  it  to  be — the  book,  or  me?" 

The  color  burned  up  in  her  cheeks  superbly- 
straight  from  the  tumult  at  her  heart. 

"  Why,  what  a  question,  Adam !  There  is  noth- 
ing in  the  book  that  is  even  remotely  interesting." 
Her  voice,  like  his,  was  low  and  charged  with  things 
potential. 

Adam  placed  the  novel  on  the  table,  and  stepping 
292 


The  Leaping  Flame 

a  trifle  closer,  placed  his  hand  for  a  moment  on  her 
own. 

"  Thank  you— dear." 

"  Adam !  "  she  admonished.     "  Adam !  " 

From  his  pocket  he  took  the  little,  old  tintype, 
cherished  throughout  the  years. 

"  It  was  here  in  this  room  I  found  you,"  he  said, 
"  about  the  time  I  found  this  little  picture.  I've 
had  this  tintype  in  my  hand  nearly  all  day." 

Again  her  color  mounted  to  her  cheeks. 

"  You  silly  boy !     It  ought  to  be  destroyed." 

His  voice  sank  lower  still — and  trembled. 

"  You  know  you're  pleased  that  I  keep  it, 
Beatrice."  He  bent  down  suddenly  and  kissed  her 
hand.  Despite  her  warning  "  Adam ! "  and  the 
snatching  of  her  hand  from  his  hold,  he  continued: 
"  How  beautiful  you  are  to-night.  It  seems  to  me 
you  haven't  changed  in  the  least  since  this  was 
taken — and  you  and  I  were  sweethearts." 

She  met  his  gaze  with  what  calm  she  could  muster 
from  a  heart  and  a  nature  quivering  with  pent 
emotions. 

"  We  have  both  of  us  changed  to  the  extent,  at 
least,  that — we  are  no  longer — sweethearts." 

He  placed  the  picture  in  his  pocket  and  sat  on 
the  arm  of  her  chair. 

"  Have  we,  Beatrice?  " 

Her  alarm  increased  on  the  instant. 

"  Adam,  please  behave,"  she  implored, — "  to-night 
of  all  nights  in  the  world." 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

His  breath  was  coming  hard.  "  Why  to-night 
of  all  nights  ?  "  His  eyes  sought  hers  with  con- 
fession burning  in  their  depths. 

She  rose  and  crossed  to  the  table,  fingering  her 
book.  Her  agitation  made  her  tremble. 

"  Oh,  because." 

He  came  behind  her  and  placed  his  hand  partially 
about  her  waist. 

"  Because  why  ?  " 

She  moved  away.  Her  bosom  was  heaving  beyond 
control. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know — the  beauty  and  comfort  of 
this  house — everything!  I  knew  I  shouldn't  come 
here  to-night !  " 

It  was  like  a  confession  that  her  nature,  too,  was 
aflame.  He  could  not  misunderstand,  filled  as  he 
was  with  consuming  love  and  passion.  Once  more 
he  possessed  himself  of  her  hand  and  kissed  it 
ardently. 

"  Beatrice — Beatrice,  I  love  to  have  you  here," 
he  breathed.  "  It  seems  like  your  natural  place." 
He  drew  her  close  and  put  his  arm  about  her  shoulder. 

She  struggled  weakly,  yet  disengaged  herself  and 
pushed  him  off. 

"  Please,  Adam,  don't,"  she  said,  pale  and  burning 
alternately,  "  suppose  anyone  should  walk  in  at  that 
door." 

"  I'll  close  it,"  he  said,  and  started  actively. 

"Oh,  no!"  she  said.  "No,  no!"  She  sank  in 
the  nearest  chair. 

294 


The  Leaping  Flame 

Nevertheless,  he  closed  it  quietly,  and  returned  in 
excitement  to  her  side. 

"  Why  shouldn't  we  take  what  the  gods  have  sent 
us,  Beatrice?  We're  alone  here  to-night,  through 
no  doing  of  our  own.  The  Fates  have  arranged  this 
hour  for  you  and  me."  He  leaned  forward  to  kiss 
her  on  the  lips. 

Again  she  leaped  to  her  feet  and  retreated. 

"  No,  Adam,  no !  "  she  said  passionately.  "  You 
mustn't — you  shall  not ! — in  your  own  home  like  this  ! 
I  feel  like  such  a  traitor !  " 

He  had  risen  and  was  once  more  holding  both 
her  hands.  All  his  being  was  pulsing  with  emo- 
tion. 

"  I  love  you,  Beatrice — my  sweetheart !  "  he  said. 
"  Everything  has  driven  me  back  to  that — in  spite  of 
every  effort  I've  made." 

"  But  I  don't  love  you,  Adam,"  she  protested  once 
more,  as  she  had  so  many  times.  "  I've  told  you  that 
from  the  start." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  he  answered  passionately. 
"  You  couldn't  help  it  when  I  love  you  so ! "  His 
hands  sought  her  face  and  again  he  leaned  forward 
to  gratify  his  starving  lips. 

The  struggle  she  made  was  her  best,  but  all  her 
nature  was  against  her. 

"  No,  Adam — please,"  she  begged,  pushing  him 
away.  "  Please,  please  to-night  just  be  my  splendid 
guardian  to  protect  me — from  us  both !  " 

It  was  the  cry  of  her  soul  in  its  losing  fight.     But 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

it  also  amounted  to  confession,  at  last,  that  she, 
too,  was  caught  in  the  toils.  She  sat  down  suddenly 
and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

Adam  was  instantly  kneeling  at  her  side,  holding 
her  fondly  to  his  heart. 

"  Beloved,"  he  said,  "  beloved.  ...  I  want  to 
give  you  some  of  the  brighter  things  of  life.  I  want 
to  make  you  happier." 

"  You  can't  this  way,"  she  told  him,  honestly. 
*'  You  know  you  can't.  It's  all  as  wrong  as  it 
can  be !  " 

It  dashed  his  ardor  for  a  moment. 

"  But  it's  right,  I  suppose,  for  you  to  have  nothing 
and  for  me  to  have  nothing,  year  after  year — till  the 
end!" 

She  could  not  have  fled  from  the  harbor  of  his 
shoulder  for  a  moment.  She  could  only  say: 

"  It's  what  I'm  used  to,  Adam." 

"  Ah,  dearest,"  he  said,  "  you  must  long  for  some- 
thing else." 

"  I  was  happy  enough  till  you  came  again  into  my 
life." 

This  stung  as  well  as  joyed  his  heart. 

"  And  haven't  I  given  you  a  little  happiness  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Adam,"  she  said,  "  don't  you  know  it  isn't 
the  kind  I  have  the  right  to  accept?  " 

He  held  her  closer.  "  It's  the  only  kind  that's 
real.  There's  nothing  on  earth  so  right  as  love — and 
what  have  you  had  all  these  years?  " 

She  pushed  herself  away  and  again  arose.  The 
296 


The  Leaping  Flame 

stings  and  desolation  in  her  heart  had  been  hard 
enough  to  bear  when  half  forgotten. 

"  Adam — don't,"  she  pleaded.  "  I've  tried  so  hard 
to  be  satisfied — to  get  along  without  all  these  beauti- 
ful things."  She  made  a  gesture  comprehending  all 
the  room. 

He  was  standing  near  her  as  before,  her  hands  at 
times  held  against  his  face,  their  palms  pressed  hard 
to  his  lips. 

"Without  comfort?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Without  ease  or  perhaps  enough  to  eat  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  appealingly  and  nodded. 

"  Without  love,  Beatrice?  " 

She  nearly  broke  down. 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes,  yes !  And  some  people  have  them 
all!" 

He  took  her  in  his  arms,  with  a  certain  strength 
and  finality  she  could  not  possibly  have  resisted. 

"  Beloved,  I  want  you  to  have  more  than  anyone 
in  the  world — of  comfort,  happiness — and  love.  I 
want  to  be  the  one  to  give  them  to  you,  Beatrice !  " 

She  tried,  feebly,  and  without  the  fighting  spirit, 
to  free  herself  once  more.  It  was  terrible  to  want 
his  love  so  mightily — terrible  to  love  him  as  she  did. 

"  Oh,  I  get  so  tired  of  fighting  you  off,"  she  con- 
fessed at  last.  "  I  get  so  tired." 

He  held  her  fast,  her  face  close  to  his,  her  lips  fair- 
drunkening  his  eyes. 

"  Don't  you  think  I've  fought  it,  too  ? — fought  my- 
297 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

self — fought  against  ray  nature? — fought,  perhaps, 
even  God?  " 

She  felt  herself  melting  in  his  arms.  She  could 
only  voice  one  more  futile  protest. 

"  Oh,  let  me  go,  Adam ;  let  me  go !  " 

"  I  can't  let  you  go,"  he  answered,  tightening  his 
clasp  about  her  supple  form.  "  I  love  you !  I  love 
you !  I  love  you ! "  He  kissed  her  in  utter  aban- 
donment to  all  that  was  surging  in  his  veins. 

Her  nature  took  the  kiss  in  rapturous  welcome. 
Then  she  leaned  far  back,  her  head  inclined,  till  her 
eyes  could  meet  his  own. 

"  Oh !  "  she  said.  It  was  almost  a  moan,  of  ecstasy 
and  pain.  Her  nature  had  uttered  its  note. 

"  Beatrice !     Beatrice !  "  he  murmured. 

She  could  bear  no  more.  She  could  hear  no 
more  of  the  call  of  love  and  remain  unmoved  and 
cold. 

She  threw  her  arms  suddenly  about  his  neck  and 
kissed  him,  yielding  herself  in  momentary  abandon  to 
the  fierce,  insatiate  love  in  possession  of  her  being. 
Then  quite  as  abruptly  she  pushed  him  away,  sinking 
weakly  in  her  chair  to  cover  her  face  with  her  hand 
and  her  arm,  while  she  shook  with  tumultuous  emo- 
tion. 

Adam  instantly  had  her  in  his  arms.  He  only 
said,  "  Beloved !  " 

"  No — no — no !  "  she  said.  "  You  shouldn't  have 
made  me  do  it !  I  try  so  hard.  You  know  you're  too 
strong  for  me  to  fight." 

298 


The  Leaping  Flame 

"  I'm  glad  of  it,  dear ! "  he  told  her,  rapturously. 
"  I  glory  in  our  love !  " 

She  buried  her  face  on  his  shoulder  willingly. 
There  was  no  more  resistance  in  her  being. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  but  I'm  ashamed !  " 

"  You  shan't  be,  sweetheart,"  he  breathed  to  her 
ardently,  kissing  her  again.  "  Beloved,  we " 

The  'phone  bell,  sharply  jangling,  startled  them 
both  to  their  feet. 

"What  was  it?  What  happened?"  said  Bea- 
trice, pale  with  fright. 

He,  too,  was  white  and  tense. 

"  It  was  nothing — nothing  but  the  'phone." 

The  bell  flung  out  its  summons  more  insistently. 

"  You'll  have  to  answer,"  said  Beatrice.  "  It 
might  be  something  important." 

Adam  went  to  the  'phone,  which  once  again  rang 
out  its  irritating  call  for  attention. 

He  looked  at  her  still  inquiringly,  observing  the 
tense,  worried  expression  of  her  face.  Then  he  took 
the  receiver  from  the  hook. 

"  Hello — hello,"  he  said  impatiently.  "  Yes,  this 

is Who?  Oh,  Paul.  .  .  .  What?  No,  Babe 

isn't  home." 

The  voice  that  came  over  the  wire  explained. 

"  I  want  to  see  you,  Adam,  concerning  Babe  and 
myself — and  so  forth.  I  feel  it's  important  in  my 
life." 

Adam,  aware  of  the  import  of  the  younger  man's 
desires,  felt  a  sudden  sense  of  responsibility,  inter- 

299 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

fering  potently  with  his  personal  impatience.  Babe 
and  her  happiness  were  vital  in  his  thoughts,  but  he 
had  no  wish  to  interrupt  himself  and  Beatrice  to- 
night. 

"  Can't  you  tell  me  over  the  wire? "  he  said. 
"  Can't  you  see  me  about  it  in  the  morning?  " 

The  answer  that  came  left  him  wavering.  "  Wait 
a  minute,"  he  requested.  He  turned  away  from  the 
instrument  and  faced  about  to  Beatrice,  muffling  the 
mouthpiece  with  his  hand. 

"  It's  Paul,"  he  said,  his  voice  barely  more  than  a 
murmur.  "  He's  'phoning  from  across  the  street  and 
wants  to  come  here  for  a  talk.  I  don't  see  how " 

"  You  can't  refuse  to  see  him,"  she  interrupted 
excitedly.  "  It  would  look  so  queer.  And  I  mustn't 
remain  any  longer." 

She  started  to  go,  but  halted  at  his  call. 

"Wait!  Don't  go.  I'll  tell  him  to  come."  He 
removed  his  hand  from  the  mouthpiece.  "  Hello, 
hello,  Paul.  I  can  give  you  just  five  minutes.  .  .  . 
All  right."  He  hung  up  the  'phone  and  came  at 
once  to  Beatrice,  standing  near  the  door. 

He  caught  up  both  her  hands. 

"He  won't  be  long.  You'll  come  back,  beloved? 
It's  still  very  early.  I'll  wait." 

She  was  wholly  unfitted  to  resist.  Her  nature  had 
tasted  the  sweetness  of  love — and  was  ready  for  sur- 
render. Yet  she  tried  to  answer  as  of  old. 

"  Oh,  Adam,  don't  ask  me,  dear." 

He  took  her,  unresisting,  in  his  arms. 
800 


The  Leaping  Flame 

"  Sweetheart,  you  must !  I  won't  let  you  go  till 
you  promise  you'll  return."  He  kissed  her  before 
she  could  answer. 

After  a  little  she  struggled,  weakly. 

He  released  her  for  a  moment  to  make  a  swinging 
gesture  towards  the  table. 

"  I'll  put  the  lamp  on  the  stand  by  the  window, 
when  he's  gone.  You  can  see  it  from  your  room. 
You'll  come  to  me,  sweetheart? — you'll  come,  be- 
loved?" 

He  clasped  her  passionately  against  his  heart  as 
before. 

"Oh,  Adam,  I  mustn't — J  mustn't."  But  she 
could  not  give  her  answer  strength. 

"  You  must,"  he  murmured.  "  You  must,  beloved. 
You  will  ? — you  will  come  back  ?  "  His  lips  sought 
hers  in  a  clinging  caress  from  which  she  could  not,  for 
her  life,  escape.  "  You'll  come  back  when  you  see 
the  lamp?" 

She  put  her  arms  about  his  neck. 

"  Oh  God  !     Adam,  we'll  pay  for  this !  " 

He  kissed  her  again.     "  You'll  come?  " 

She  nodded,  pushing  herself  from  his  clasp. 

"Yes— I  can't  help  it — I'll  come."  She  kissed 
him  suddenly,  passionately,  and  fled  through  the  door, 
in  a  blind,  bewildered  manner. 


301 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

AN    INTERRUPTION 

ADAM  bore  every  outward  sign  of  calm  when  Paul 
came  in.  He  had  lighted  a  fresh  cigar.  Paul  was 
fortified  only  by  a  grin — that  masked  very  little  of 
his  feeling. 

"  Lord,  but  it's  raining  like  the  deuce !  "  he  said, 
approaching  the  table  where  Adam  stood,  and  rub- 
bing at  his  jaw.  "  It's  wet  outside — and  lonely." 

"  What  did  you  want  to  come  out  for,  a  night  like 
this?"  Adam  was  already  impatient. 

"  I  wanted  to  come  iw,"  said  Paul.  "  Pm  up 
against  the  crisis  of  my  life."  He  sat  down  precipi- 
tately. 

"  Well,  I  said  I'd  give  you  five  minutes.  If  you 
want  to  ask  for  Babe,  it's  all  right,  so  far  as  I  am 
concerned.  You  can  have  my  blessing  whenever  you 
please.  Is  that  about  all  ?  " 

"  No,  that's  only  a  sort  of  beginning.  You  see, 
Adam,  I  can't  decide  whether  to  ask  for  Babe  or 
Frona — I  mean  I  can't  decide  which  one  to  ask." 

Adam  had  feared  some  such  perdicament;  and 
this,  indeed,  had  induced  him  more  than  anything 
else  to  submit  to  Paul's  interruption. 

302 


An  Interruption 

"  Babe  or  Frona  ?  "  he  echoed,  in  disgust.  "  If 
there's  really  no  choice,  why  not  toss  up  a  penny?  " 

"  I  tried  that.  The  first  time  Babe  won,  and  the 
next  time  Frona — so  I'm  just  where  I  was  when  I 
started.  I  thought  I'd  ask  your  advice.  You're  the 
nearest  approach  to  a  father,  brother,  and  friend  I 
ever  had." 

His  honest  speech,  with  no  effort  in  that  direction, 
touched  something  fine  in  Adam's  being.  In  a  way 
he  loved  this  blundering  boy  and  was  eager  for  his 
happiness  in  life. 

"  Paul,"  he  said,  "  you're  a  double-barreled  idiot, 
first  for  being  on  the  fence  in  a  case  like  this,  second 
for  asking  advice." 

"  But,  you  see,  Adam,  Frona  is  really  a  dead  swell 
girl,  there's  no  denying  that — and  Babe's  the  best 
little  chum  I  ever  knew." 

"  You're  attracted  by  one  and  disturbed  over  the 
other." 

"  That's  just  exactly  it.  Now  what  would  you 
do?  You've  got  an  awful  lot  of  sense,  and  you  ought 
to  frame  me  up  just  about  right." 

Adam,  like  every  man  with  a  grain  of  wisdom,  was 
reluctant  to  advise  as  to  things  of  so  vital,  so  uncer- 
tain a  nature.  But  he  felt  that  Paul's  appeal,  aside 
from  a  certain  element  of  humor  in  his  honest  helpless- 
ness, was  a  serious  cry  for  help.  It  sobered  him — 
wakened  a  long  train  of  thoughts — disturbed  his 
lethargic  conscience.  He  passed  his  hand  across  his 
eyes. 

SOS 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

"  Paul,"  he  said,  "  a  friend  of  mine  once  married 
a  girl  about  like  Frona — stylish — dead  swell — and 
selfish." 

"  Oh,  I  own  that  Frona's  a  little  bit " 

Adam  waved  for  attention. 

"  It  was  all  very  well  for  a  while.  He  liked  her 
little  bossy  ways.  He  liked  to  serve  her — knuckle 
under.  Every  man  likes  a  little  of  that  sort  of  thing 
—at  first." 

"  I  know.     Great,  isn't  it?     Frona's " 

"  But  this  friend  of  mine  became  a  slave — toiling 
from  morning  till  night — year  in  and  year  out — 
while  his  wife  became  more  and  more  exacting — more 
and  more  selfish — more  and  more  spoiled." 

"  Sure.     Of  course,  but ; 

"  Mind  you,  she  was  always  a  gooa  woman,  Paul." 
Adam  half-closed  his  eyes,  in  reverie,  blowing  out  the 
smoke  and  watching  its  rings.  "  But — she  was  the 
kind  that  drive  men  to  the  devil.  .  .  .  That  friend 
of  mine  has  been  an  honest,  decent  man — virtuous 
and  absolutely  faithful.  To-day  he's  starved,  an- 
gered, cheated.  He  has  always  been  proud  of  the 
pedestal  on  which  he  has  stood — but  she  has  finally 
driven  him  to  hate  it !  By  God !  when  you  think  of 

the  outcome,  in  a  light  like  that "     He  did  not 

finish,  but  rose  and  paced  the  floor. 

Paul  was  aware  that  Adam  was  unduly  agitated. 
He  had  doubtless  guessed  a  little  of  the  personal  ap- 
plication of  the  picture  and  experience,  yet  was  still 
a  trifle  fogged. 

304 


An  Interruption 
"  I  don't  see  how — what  all  of  this- 


Adam  turned  on  his  visitor  almost  aggressively. 
His  face  was  drawn  and  tense. 

"  No  woman  has  a  right,  through  her  selfishness, 
to  goad  a  man  to  such  a  state  of  mind.  When  she 
marries  for  a  selfish  end,  exacting  kindness,  indul- 
gence, luxury,  freedom  from  work — when  she  con- 
tributes nothing  to  the  struggle  he  must  always  make 
— when  she  shirks  the  duties  of  a  helpmate  and  takes, 
takes,  takes,  while  giving  him  nothing — then  I  say 
she  murders  his  better  instincts — drives  him  to  hatred 
of  his  lofty  ideals — and  maybe  to  the  ruin  of  himself 
and  other  women,  perhaps  far  better  than  herself ! " 

Paul  was  almost  alarmed  at  Adam's  heat. 

"  Oh,  I'm  onto  all  that,  but " 

Adam  went  on  with  increasing  vehemence. 

"  There  ought  to  be  something  higher,  more  un- 
selfish and  helpful  in  a  woman's  scheme  of  married 
life  than  an  endless  appetite  for  the  seaside,  the 
opera,  gowns,  bridge,  dogs,  and  money-spending! 
The  function  of  her  married  life  should  comprehend 
at  least  a  little  of  helpfulness,  work-sharing,  wife- 
hood,  and  motherhood !  Otherwise  it's  all  a  ghastly 
farce  and  a  prodding  of  the  man  to  his  ruin  !  " 

Paul  had  lost  all  tendency  to  smile. 

"  I  certainly  agree  that " 

"  Frona's  a  beautiful,  up-to-date  young  woman," 
Adam  interrupted  " — absolutely  selfish  and  unnatu- 
ral. She'll  refuse  all  the  obligations  of  motherhood. 
You  may  think  you'll  want  no  children.  It's  the 

305 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

present-day  attitude  of  many  men  and  women.  But 
whether  you  do  or  do  not,  the  day  will  come  when  a 
childless  wife — a  selfish,  self-promoting  woman  as 
your  mate — may  be  responsible  for  your  utter,  irrev- 
ocable shame — a  shame  you'll  embrace,  perhaps,  with 
all  the  recklessness  of  a  madman  !  "  He  was  lashing 
himself,  across  the  shoulders  of  some  half-imagined 
Paul  of  the  future,  but  of  this  his  visitor  was  wholly 
unaware.  It  was  not  a  voluntary  outburst  that 
sprang  from  Adam's  lips — it  was  one  more  dogged 
assertion  of  his  big,  right-thinking  manhood. 

Paul  was  stiff  with  attention. 

"  Then  you  advise " 

"  I'm  not  advising  any  man.  I'm  simply  telling 
you  what  you  may  expect  if  you  link  your  life  with 
that  of  a  woman  who  will  make  of  you  another  Ameri- 
can machine  instead  of  the  head  of  the  house — some 
woman  reared  to  think  of  nothing  but  herself !  " 

Paul  stood  up,  angularly. 

"  I've  thought  of  some  of  those  things — a  little." 

"  Then  don't  make  some  hideous  mistake  for  the 
sake  of  the  things  of  the  moment.  Don't  marry  for 
an  afternoon.  Marry  for  ten  years  from  now — for 
twenty  years — for  life.  Marry  for  the  natural, 
right  results  of  such  a  union — the  wholesome  results 
that  make  the  vast  majority  of  the  common  people 
happy ! " 

Paul  extended  his  hand  soberly. 

"  Thank  you,  Adam.  I  thought  I'd  get  it  pretty 
straight  from  you." 

306 


An  Interruption 

Adam  took  his  hand,  fastened  a  powerful  grip  upon 
it,  and  held  it  for  a  long  and  earnest  shake. 

"  And  when  you  are  married,  Paul,  remember  not 
only  that  nature  intends  the  mated  pair  to  be  the 
parents  of  a  brood,  but  also  that  she  always  has  in- 
tended and  always  will  intend  the  man  to  be  the 
stronger,  more  dominant  animal.  Begin  that  way — 
and  remember  to  be  just — just  to  yourself  and  to 
her." 

Paul  suddenly  pulled  out  his  watch. 

"  Do  you  think  it's  too  late  for  me  to  call  on  the 
Bronsons  now — to-night?" 

Adam  almost  smiled. 

"  It's  never  too  late  to  get  on  the  right  track,  Paul, 
if  you  haven't  gone  too  far  the  other  way." 

Paul's  grin  was  instantly  restored. 

"  Oh,  I  haven't  gone  as  far  as  that.  You  don't 
mind  my  leaving  in  a  hurry  ?  " 

"  I  wish  you  God-speed,  and  all  the  good  fortune 
in  the  world." 

Paul  looked  at  him  frankly  from  the  door. 

"  Good-night,  Adam,"  he  said.  "  You're  the 
straightest  man  I  ever  knew."  He  waved  his  hand 
and  departed,  closing  the  door. 


SOT 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE    CIJMAX 

ADAM,  left  alone  to  ponder  his  visitor's  last  re- 
mark, was  stung  by  a  sudden  sense  of  his  own  utter 
weakness  and  unworthiness.  He  had  preached — he 
recognized  the  fact — he,  still  tingling  throughout 
his  being  with  a  passion  denied  him  by  right.  He 
had  dared  to  speak  of  holy  things — things  precious, 
sacred,  exalted.  He  had  sought  to  evoke  in  the 
mind  of  Paul  the  attributes  to  which  he  himself  was 
doing  willing  violence. 

He  all  but  groaned,  as  he  moved  at  last,  to  cross 
to  the  mantel,  where  he  leaned  with  his  hand  held 
hard  against  his  eyes.  He  was  fighting  the  battle  of 
his  life.  His  nature  burned  and  his  brain  was  aflame 
with  thoughts  swiftly  fleeing  to  Beatrice. 

His  arguments  had  shamed  himself,  yet  could  not 
quell  his  nature.  Vision  after  vision  of  her  newest 
loveliness — the  loveliness  of  all  her  love  revealed,  de- 
clared at  last — swept  with  a  ravishing  distinctness 
upon  his  mirroring  brain.  Shock  and  surge  and 
ecstasy  from  all  her  kisses  were  magnified  to  new 
voluptuary  power. 

308 


The  Climax 

He  swayed  where  he  stood,  with  the  rage  of  the 
conflict  within  him. 

"  Oh ! "  he  said  to  himself,  in  his  throes,  "  I'm  a 
coward — a  damnable  coward!  .  .  .  But  it  isn't — it 
isn't  my  fault.  I'm  only  human,  after  all — and  the 
flesh  can  bear  no  more !  " 

Some  distant  sound  disturbed  him,  potently.  He 
started,  listened,  caught  at  himself,  and  underwent 
some  momentary  revulsion  of  feeling.  He  was  sure 
that  Beatrice  wished  to  be  spared — and  for  her 
sake 

For  that  one  second,  resolved  to  play  the  finer 
part,  he  went  to  the  table,  turned  down  the  lamp  and 
was  raising  to  extinguish  for  once  and  all  the  flame 
of  his  overmastering  passion — when  just  the  sight 
of  the  chair  where  she  had  rested  brought  tumult,  re- 
bellion and  madness  to  his  brain,  till  his  blood  leaped 
like  fire  in  his  pulses. 

The  flame  was  turned  upward  anew. 

He  started  to  carry  the  lamp  to  the  stand.  He 
halted.  The  fight,  all  but  won,  a  second  before,  was 
suddenly  gone  the  other  way.  Yet  he  left  the  lamp 
where  it  was,  as  before,  and  paced  a  little  up  and 
down.  His  spirit  was  wrung  by  his  body. 

His  restless  glance  encountered  a  little  bouffet — 
and  he  was  beaten.  He  went  there,  fevered  far  be- 
yond the  reach  of  reason,  took  out  glasses  and  a  bottle 
of  wine,  brought  them  all  to  the  table  and  poured  out 
two  liberal  draughts. 

Once  more  he  halted,  began  to  pace,  and  beat  his 
309 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

fist  in  his  hand.  He  was  temporizing,  merely.  He 
knew  he  was  gone,  and  despised  himself  for  maintain- 
ing the  show  of  a  struggle.  In  one  impatient  out- 
burst of  recklessness  he  took  up  the  lamp,  carried  it 
over  to  the  window-stand,  and  placed  it  for  Beatrice 
to  see. 

His  mouth  was  dry  when  he  strode  once  more  to 
the  table.  He  took  a  sip  of  the  inflaming  wine  and 
strained  his  ears  to  listen.  In  silence,  on  tiptoe,  he 
hastened  to  the  door,  stood  there  focusing  all  his 
faculties  to  catch  at  the  first  faint  sound,  came  rest- 
lessly back,  and  swabbed  perspiration  from  his  brow. 

Half  a  minute  later,  more  restive  than  before,  he 
got  a  cigar,  lit  it,  smoked  at  it  madly,  and  flung  it 
from  him  to  the  fireplace,  from  half  way  across  the 
room,  at  a  faint  sound  made  at  the  door. 

Almost  running  across  the  rug  and  floor,  he  halted 
for  a  moment,  simply  to  still  the  beating  of  his  heart, 
then  drew  the  door  wide  open. 

He  recoiled  almost  in  terror. 

It  was  Mae  in  the  hall,  with  her  hand  outstretched 
to  grasp  the  shining  knob. 

"Why— Mae,"  he  said  thickly  "—I  thought— 
you'd  gone  to  bed ! " 

She  came  in,  looking  at  him  oddly.  She,  too,  was 
evidently  laboring  under  excitement.  Her  face  was 
very  pale. 

"  I — I  thought  I'd  come  in  and  pay  you  a  visit," 
she  said.  "  I  hadn't  been  asleep." 

Adam  had  never  been  more  distraught  in  all  his 
S10 


The  Climax 

life.  He  had  never  felt  so  absolutely  guilty.  Cold 
sickness  attacked  him  at  his  vitals. 

"  I  know  —  but  —  you  might  catch  cold.  Such  a 
thing  as  this  -  " 

She  had  halted  half-way  down  the  room,  and  faced 
him  as  he  closed  the  door. 

"  Aren't  you  glad  to  see  me  ?  " 

Both  the  question  and  the  look  in  her  eyes  amazed 
him.  He  could  not  understand  what  it  meant  to 
have  her  here  like  this.  More  than  anything  else, 
however,  he  dreaded  to  have  her  remain. 

"  Why,  certainly,"  he  answered  —  "  of  course. 
But  —  you're  not  strong  enough  to  do  this  sort  of 
thing.  I'd  better  take  you  back." 

She  came  to  the  chair  where  Beatrice  had  sat  and 
faced  him  as  before. 

"  I  thought  you  might  be  pleased  if  I  came  to  — 
to  be  cozy  with  you  here."  She  sat  down,  looking 
up  in  his  face. 

His  puzzlement  increased.  She  had  done  nothing 
comparable  to  this  for  years. 

"  I  am  —  I  am  pleased,"  he  assured  her,  untruth- 
fully, "  but  I'm  afraid  you  may  be  ill  to-morrow 


She  interrupted  timidly  —  with  a  faint  blush  rising 
to  her  cheeks. 

"  I  put  on  my  prettiest  tea-gown  just  to  please 
you  —  and  try  to  look  a  little  pretty." 

"  You  do  —  you  look  very  pretty  indeed,"  he 
started,  when  he  suddenly  thought  of  the  lamp,  for 

811 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

which  he  went  at  once,  fetching  it  quickly  to  the 
table,  while  he  added :  "  Surely  your  room  would 
be  much  more  comfortable  than  this." 

She  had  watched  his  movements  and  was  observ- 
ing him  now  with  a  new  and  frightened  interest. 

"  Don't  you  wish  me  to  stay  ?  " 

"  Why,  cer'tainly — if  you're  well  enough,  my  dear. 

You've    been    so    indisposed "      He    noted    the 

glasses  and  moved  at  once  between  them  and  his 
wife. 

Again  she  interrupted,  in  some  increasing  stress 
of  mind. 

"  I  came  in  to — I  thought  you  might  wish  to  kiss 
me  good-night — or  pet  me — Adam." 

The  man  stared  at  her  in  utter  incredulity.  He 
was  on  the  verge  of  demanding  what  had  happened 
to  arouse  her  to  these  unheard  of  wifely  advances. 

She  added :  "  I  thought,  perhaps,  you'd  be  glad 
to  have  me  come — but  you're  not — you're  not  in  the 
least." 

His  face  was  suddenly  reddened. 

"  You  know  I'm  glad — I'm  always  glad,  but  you 
are  merely  excited.  You ' 

She  stood  up,  unexpectedly,  and  again  broke  in 
upon  his  confusion. 

"  It  isn't  that — you  no  longer  love  me,  Adam ! 
It's  true — it's  all  true.  I  didn't  believe  it,  but  I 
had  to  come  and  see ! " 

He  stared  at  her,  guessing  wildly  at  the  riddle. 

"What  is  all  true?     What  do  you  mean?" 
312 


The  Climax 

She  faced  him  with  a  strength  that  was  hardly  to 
be  expected.  She  was  frightened,  and  for  the  mo- 
ment could  hardly  halt  to  think  about  herself.  Her 
eyes  were  wide  as  she  answered : 

"  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it — if  it  hadn't  been  for 
all I  was  lying  in  bed  when  I  got  the  mes- 
sage over  the  'phone — some  woman  who  wouldn't  tell 
her  name." 

With  all  the  quickness  of  his  wit  Adam  could  not 
for  the  life  of  him  see  the  slightest  light  in  all  that 
she  was  saying. 

"Somewhat?  Some  message?  Tell  me  what  you 
mean !  " 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  you  must  tell  me.  Some 
woman  'phoned  that  if  I  cared  to  save  my  happi- 
ness, or  yours — save  both  of  us  Irom  some  ter- 
rible mistake,  for  God's  sake  to  go  to  you  at 
once  and — offer  you  my  love ! "  She  blushed 
at  the  revelation  of  what  she  had  come  here  to 
proffer. 

Adam  all  but  staggered.  A  numbing,  passion- 
slaying  realization  of  what  had  occurred  surged 
overwhelmingly  upon  him.  It  was  Beatrice — 
Beatrice — she  was  the  woman,  fleeing  from  love,  flee- 
ing to  the  right,  fleeing  from  out  the  house,  and 
away  from  herself  and  him — who  had  sent  in  the 
message — sent  in  the  word  that  must  instantly  block 
their  human  madness.  The  thought  of  her  strength, 
her  desperation,  her  Spartan  courage  was  a  sicken- 
ing indictment  of  himself. 

313 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

He  could  only  attempt  a  weak  and  temporizing 
answer. 

"  A  woman  ?  Some  woman  ?  What  woman  could 
it  be?  " 

Mae  was  regarding  him  as  one  who  has  roused 
from  blinding  sleep. 

"  I  don't  know,  Adam.     But  what  does  it  mean  ?  " 

Relief  that  she  had  not  guessed  at  the  truth  was 
the  uppermost  emotion  in  his  being.  He  recovered 
a  little  of  his  strength. 

"  Nothing — nothing.  It  was  doubtless  all  a  joke 
— some  practical  joke.  How  could  I  tell  what  it 
means,  a  thing  like  that  ?  " 

Her  intuitions  were  coming  into  play. 

"  You  are  hiding  something  from  me.  But  if  it 
is  a  joke — how  cruel ! — how  cowardly ! — how " 

Adam  could  bear  no  more.  When  he  thought  of 
Beatrice,  doubtless  out  somewhere  in  the  rain,  send- 
ing his  wife  such  a  warning  as  this — rising  to  the 
heights  of  this  nobility,  the  moment  she  was  free 
to  act  for  herself — he  was  stung  not  only  to  a  ruth- 
less shame  of  his  weakling  self,  but  also  to  a  cham- 
pionship of  Beatrice  and  what  she  had  done — no 
matter  what  the  cost. 

"  Don't  say  it !  Don't !  "  he  commanded  almost 
savagely.  "  Cowardly  ? — my  God !  Cowardly !  " 

Mae  became  calmer. 

"  Adam,  you  do  know  what  it  means."  She  dis- 
covered the  glasses  on  the  table.  "  What  are  these 
glasses — and  wine?  " 

314 


The  Climax 

"  I — got  them  out.  Paul  has  just  been  here,  and 
gone." 

She  sank  again  in  her  chair. 

"  You're  not  telling  me  the  truth." 

"  What  more  do  you  think  I  can  tell  ?  "  He  took 
up  the  book  that  Beatrice  had  left  and  began  to 
turn  its  pages.  It  was  merely  a  ruse  to  mask  his 
agitation.  He  did  not  see  the  pages. 

But  the  letter  fell  out — the  note  that  Will  had 
penned  so  short  a  time  before.  He  stooped  and 
picked  it  up,  glancing  at  it  carelessly,  till  he  sud- 
denly beheld  the  well-known  hand — and  swayed  with 
another  emotion. 

A  realizing  sense  that  it  was  Beatrice  whom  Will 
desired  to  marry  broke  upon  him  with  the  shock  of 
a  blow — that  and  the  further  realization  of  what  he 
himself  had  done  to  shatter  the  dream  of  his  friend. 
He  was  all  but  blind  with  the  rush  of  accusing  blood 
to  his  face,  yet  heard  his  wife  dimly,  renewing  her 
vague  and  groping  charges. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  could  tell  me,"  she  said, 
"  but  there  is  something  going  on.  You  weren't 
glad  to  see  me  when  I  came,  so  horribly  frightened. 
You  are  not  yourself.  You  treat  me  differently. 
You  know  how  nervous  and  afraid  I've  been. 
You " 

He  interrupted  passionately,  not  as  an  answer  to 
what  she  was  saying,  but  in  answer  to  what  he  him- 
self had  done — to  the  shame  that  was  eating,  like  an 
acid,  into  all  his  self-indicting  thoughts. 

315 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

"  God  Almighty !  the  ruin — the  wretched  disgrace 
— the  shame  and  treachery !  "  He  placed  the  letter 
once  more  in  the  book  and  laid  it  on  the  table. 
He  placed  his  hands  against  his  head  and 
paced  the  length  of  the  room  with  tigerish 
unrest.  He  had  never  been  so  tortured  in  his 
life. 

Mae  was  startled  anew.  "  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 
she  asked  him.  "  What  is  going  on  ?  " 

"  Don't  ask  me !  "  he  answered  savagely.  "  Don't 
ask  me  any  more !  " 

She  arose  and  watched  him  swinging  back  and 
forth  upon  the  rug. 

"  But  I  want  to  know.  You  weren't  expecting  me 
to  come." 

He  halted  for  a  second. 

"Expect  you — like  this?  Good  God!  You 
haven't  done  such  a  thing  in  years!  If  you 
had "  He  swung  off  anew  on  his  orbit. 

She  had  grasped  at  a  nub  and  clung  to  it 
pertinaciously. 

"  When  I  came  you  were  waiting — perhaps  for 
someone  else.  It  wasn't  for  a  woman  ?  " 

He  was  past  all  fear  of  her  weak  accusation,  so 
much  more  burning  was  his  own.  A  certain  reck- 
lessness, defiance,  rising  indignation,  and  husband- 
righteousness  was  developing  within  him. 

"  Suppose  it  was  a  woman — what  then  ?  " 

Mae  staggered  to  a  chair  and  held  to  it  weakly, 
for  support.  Her  eyes  were  dilated  widely.  She 

316 


The  Climax 

saw  and  a  little  comprehended  the  new  defiance  of 
his  mien. 

"You— don't  deny  it?  Oh,  I  shall  have  to  go 
back  to  my  room." 

It  was  just  a  hint  of  her  old,  familiar  tactics.  It 
ignited  his  instant  resentment,  which  in  turn  ex- 
ploded all  his  pent-up  dynamite  of  feeling. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said.  "  You're  not  going  to  your 
room.  Now  that  you're  here " 

Mae,  having  stared  in  unbelief  at  the  husband 
she  had  known  to  be  so  pliant  to  her  lightest  wish, 
began  forthwith  to  weep. 

"  You  were  waiting  for  a  woman,"  she  said.  "  You 
don't  deny  it." 

Adam  came  close  and  stood  above  her. 

"  I  deny  nothing !  admit  nothing !  I  simply  say 
that  you've  done  everything — everything  possible,  to 
contribute  to  some  such  end."  His  voice  was  vibrant 
with  passionate  accusation. 

She  looked  up,  startled  from  her  weeping. 

"  Adam — how  can  you " 

"  I  repeat  it,"  he  told  her  angrily.  "  You've  done 
everything  possible  to  ruin  my  honor — my  loyalty — 
my  faithfulness !  "  He  began  to  walk  as  before. 

"  I?  " 

"  You !  "  His  agitation  was  tremendous.  "  What 
have  you  given  me,  all  our  married  life?  No  genuine 
love — no  help — no  children — nothing  but  a  dog  for 
a  family — your  absence  for  my  consolation — your 
imaginary  weaknesses  for  a  constant  diet!  You've 

817 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

given  me  years  of  needless  worry  and  a  goading  to 
deadening  work!  You've  given  me  a  selfish  frame 
to  hang  more  clothes,  and  furs,  and  jewels  on — 
— nothing  more — nothing  but  that — nothing — ab- 
solutely nothing  of  the  helpmate — nothing  of  actual 
wifehood!  You've  killed  my  affection — starved  my 
heart — emptied  my  soul  and  pockets  together ! 
You've  taken  and  taken  till  you  know  no  other  plan ! 
You've  undermined  even  my  love  of  honor,  and  made 
me  the  prey  of  my  passions !  You've  pushed  me  for 
years  into  all  the  deeps  of  temptation !  You've  made 
our  marriage  a  farce ! — and  our  lives  a  negative  hell ! 
My  God!  to  think  how  near  I've  been  to  sacrificing 
everything  because  of  what  you've  done ! " 

"  Adam,  you  know  I've  been  too  ill.     I " 

"  Mae,  you've  been  too  utterly  selfish ! — too 
thoughtless  of  everything  save  yourself! — too  eager 
for  ease ! — too  unemployed !  You've  been  shame- 
lessly careless  of  me  and  my  wants — my  needs  ! — too 
willing  to  accept ! — too  reluctant  to  give ! — so  selfish 
and  spoiled  and  morbid  concerning  yourself  that,  at 
last,  it's  all  you  know !  " 

She  had  risen,  roused  again  to  a  momentary 
forgetfulness  of  her  customary  pose  of  helplessness. 

"  It  isn't  true — you  know  it  isn't  true.  You 
know " 

"  I  know  it's  horribly,  sickeningly  true !  You've 
given  me  nothing  to  gratify  my  natural  emotions  of 
husbandhood  and  fatherhood !  You've  returned  me 
nothing  for  all  I've  supplied!  You've  all  but 

318 


The  Climax 

robbed  me,  here  to-night,  of  everything  a  man  holds 
sacred !  "  His  voice  nearly  broke,  in  his  vast  up- 
heaval of  the  soul.  "  Everything — everything — 
honor  to  his  name — faithfulness  to  his  vows — loy- 
alty to  his  friend !  " 

"  I  don't  understand  you  in " 

"  I,  who  have  been  so  jealous  of  my  place  among 
my  friends  and  fellow  men !  "  he  continued,  beating 
himself  upon  the  breast.  "  I,  who  have  preached 
of  decency  and  high  resolve !  I,  to  be  so  close  to  an 
utterly  despicable  end !  " 

She  looked  at  him  wildly — in  a  fright  that  was 
new  to  her  ken. 

"  Don't  you  love  me  any  more?  " 

"  And  it  isn't  as  if  it  were  only  I ! "  he  continued, 
unheeding  her  words.  "  Such  utter  selfishness  as 
yours  has  been  must  constantly  work  to  involve  and 
jeopardize  nearly  every  woman  with  whom  a  natural 
man  is  thrown  in  social  contact — yes,  and  your  own 
thoughtless  self  as  well,  in  the  almost  inescapable 
shame  that  is  certain  to  come  to  us  all !  " 

She  could  only  repeat  her  refrain.  "  You  do 
not  love  me,  Adam — or  you  could  not  talk  like 
this." 

"Love  you?"  he  said.  "Love  you?  I  did — 
once — I  did,  by  God ! — and  I  could  love  you  yet ! 
But  only  as  a  mate — do  you  understand  that? — as 
a  wife — a  real  wife — helpful,  thoughtful,  comforting 
— and  the  mother  of  my  children !  " 

He  suddenly  came  to  where  she  stood,  grasped  her 
319 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

roughly  by  the  shoulders,  and  gave  her  a  violent 
shake. 

"  Oh !  "  she  cried,  "  I'm  so  weak !     I'm  afraid " 

"You're  not!"  he  said.  "You're  not!  Have 
done  with  that  despicable  nonsense !  And  listen  to 
me.  I  tell  you,  Mae,  that  this  is  the  end  of  our 
weakness  and  our  folly — mine  for  letting  you  grow 
like  this — yours  for  the  selfish  beginning!  I  refuse 
to  sink !  I  refuse  to  betray  my  friend !  I  refuse 
to  wrong  a  helpless  woman.  I'm  yoked  to  you  and 
you've  got  to  be  my  wife — and  we'll  start  our  scheme 
anew !  " 

**  Adam ! — what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that  your  tyranny  of  weakness  ends  to- 
night !  I  mean  that  your  selfishness  is  over  with 
and  done !  I  mean  that  you  shall  work  for  your 
living,  now,  and  be  a  help  to  me !  I  mean  you  shall 
live  as  a  natural  woman  should — and  I'll  be  the  head 
of  the  house!  I  mean  you'll  be  the  mother  of  my 
tribe,  though  it  kill  you  to  bring  them  into 
being ! " 

"  Oh,  but  you're  a  savage ! "  she  cried  at  him  ex- 
citedly. "  You  know  that  isn't  love !  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  as  he  stood  there  before  her, 
dominant  at  last.  "  I  am  a  savage — as  all  men  are 
at  heart !  A  man's  first  duty  is  to  be  a  good,  strong 
animal!  And  we'll  say,  if  you  like,  it  isn't  love 
that's  risen  in  my  breast — nothing  at  present  but 
animal  righteousness — nothing  but  the  cave-man 
breaking  forth  as  the  master  of  his  cave.  But  such 

320 


The  Climax 

as  it  is,  by  God,  it's  right — as  the  other  has  always 
been  wrong !  " 

"  Adam " 

"  Not  another  word  to-night !  To-morrow  we  be- 
gin as  man  and  wife ! — as  normal,  mated  animals ! 
— performing  our  normal  duties !  Now  pack  your- 
self off  to  your  bed  at  once — and  see  that  you  don't 
call  on  your  maid !  " 

She  dared  not  answer,  dared  not  disobey.  A 
strange,  new  thrill  was  upon  her,  and  her  blood  shot 
fast  in  her  veins.  She  looked  at  him  once,  and 
could  not  have  wept  to  save  her  life.  In  his  stern, 
fine  face  she  read  the  sign  that  could  not  be  mis- 
understood. 

She  went,  without  Annie,  to  her  room. 

Then  Adam  sat  down  with  his  head  in  his  hands, 
his  elbows  at  rest  on  his  knees. 

He  was  there  when  some  clock  in  a  distant  belfry 
struck  out  the  midnight  hour. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE  PILLARS    OF   EDEN 

AT  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  Adam  was  dressed 
in  his  room.  He  went  at  once  to  his  wife's  apart- 
ment, entered  without  the  slightest  pretense  of  a 
knock,  and  roused  her  from  her  slumbers. 

She  had  slept  no  more  than  four  or  five  hours, 
as  against  her  usual  ten.  She  had  dropped  at  last 
into  dreamless  repose  after  telling  herself  that  the 
morning  light  would  dissipate  the  madness  in  her 
husband,  and  restore  the  order  they  had  known. 

Rudely  awakened  by  his  strong,  big  hand,  laid 
with  vigor  on  her  shoulder,  she  sat  up  abruptly, 
staring  at  his  face.  What  she  saw  was  a  calm,  de- 
termined man,  smileless,  pale,  and  stern.  It  was  not 
the  Adam  known  so  long — the  Adam  of  smiles  and 
surrenders,  both  of  which  had  long  been  artificial. 
But  she  did  not  understand. 

"  What  is  it?  "  she  said  in  some  affright.  "  Has 
something  happened?  The  house  hasn't  caught  on 
fire?" 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  the  fire  is  all  in  me.  It  is  seven 
o'clock.  Get  up  and  dress  and  help  to  get  my 
breakfast." 

S22 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

She  was  all  but  dumb  with  incredulity. 

"  Why,  but — Adam — seven  o'clock !  Isn't  the 
cook  in  the  kitchen?" 

"  She  is — and  waiting  to  give  you  a  lesson.  You 
begin  to-day  to  learn  the  arts  of  supplying  my 
natural  needs.  You  are  going  to  learn  to  cook,  to 
serve,  to  repair  my  clothes,  and  market  for  the  house. 
I  told  you  last  night  what  you  had  to  expect  from 
this  time  forth." 

Still  she  stared.  "  But — learn  to  cook,  and — 
Why  ?  when  I'm  going  abroad  in  so  short  a  time " 

"  Your  trip  abroad  is  canceled.  Your  cure  begins 
right  here — and  I  shall  be  your  doctor,  exclusively. 
Get  up,  I  said,  and  dress  yourself.  I've  forbidden 
Annie  to  enter  the  room  or  proffer  the  slightest  as- 
sistance. You  may  as  well  understand  these  matters 
first  as  last." 

Mae  could  scarcely  credit  her  senses.  She  made 
no  move  to  arise.  Instead,  she  sat  looking  intently 
upon  him,  her  eyes  fixed  wide  with  wonder  as  she 
tried  in  vain  to  conjure  up  her  old-time  aids  for 
winning  her  way  with  her  man. 

She  asked  him  weakly :  "  What  do  you  mean  to 
do?  " 

"  I  told  you  last  night,"  he  repeated,  "  that  we 
are  beginning  anew.  I  mean  to  reform  this  house- 
hold before  it  is  all  too  late.  I  mean  to  put  you 
to  work,  along  a  normal  woman's  lines.  I  mean  to 
make  you  grow,  in  body  and  in  soul,  till  you  fill  out 
the  mold  of  a  wife." 

323 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

He  was  calm;  his  voice  was  low  and  devoid  of 
passion.  But  mastery  shone  in  his  eyes — a  heatless 
fire  that  hinted  at  things  volcanic. 

Mae  was  dumfounded,  despite  all  the  things  she 
had  heard  on  the  previous  night.  Automatically 
she  retreated  to  her  old,  exhausted  line  of  defense. 

"  I  simply  haven't  the  strength.  You  know  I 
haven't,  Adam.  You " 

"  We  won't  start  that  old  game  again,"  he  in- 
terrupted quietly.  "  If  you  haven't  the  strength  it 
simply  means  you're  unfitted  to  survive.  I  don't  be- 
lieve it.  If  I  were  to  die  to-morrow  and  leave  you 
penniless,  you'd  find  the  strength  to  do  some  sort 
of  work  to  preserve  the  life  in  your  body.  You're 
going  to  find  it  now  without  my  retreat  from  the 
scene.  You  are  going  to  regain  a  normal  woman's 
strength  and  usefulness — or  perish  in  making  the 
effort.  You  are  young,  you  are  sound.  You  are 
going  to  forget  your  imaginary  ills  in  the  splendid 
absorption  of  labor." 

Her  eyes  remained  fixed  on  his  face.  It  was  such 
an  awakening  as  she  had  never  had  in  all  her  life. 
It  baffled  and  bewildered  her  self-centered  senses.  It 
seemed  preposterous — utterly  grotesque. 

She  asked  him:  "What  do  you  expect? — what 
do  you  think  I  can  do  ?  " 

"  Everything  that  the  helpful  mate  accomplishes. 
You  are  going  to  learn  to  cook  and  sew  and  darn. 
You  are  going  to  be  busied  all  day.  You  are  going 
to  think  of  something  other  than  yourself.  You 

324 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

are  going  to  be  a  wife — of  that  I  am  sure,  and  a 
mother — if  so  it  please  God." 

Her  horror  grew  apace.  "  You  are  going  to  kill 
me,  Adam." 

He  did  not  smile. 

"  If  it  kills  you,  better  you  perish  as  a  useful, 
helpful  being,  fulfilling  your  functions  to  me  and  to 
nature  than  as  a  useless,  sodden  weight.  You  are 
killing  yourself  at  present — and  ruining  me — that  is 
certain.  You've  been  worse  than  useless,  worse  than 
a  drag — a  millstone  fastened  on  my  neck — you've 
been  a  positive  menace  to  the  honor  of  our  vow — 
and  thereby,  with  your  kind,  a  menace  to  things 
that  go  to  the  root  of  the  very  nation's  integrity." 

She  still  thought  only  of  herself,  and  of  what  he 
was  saying  in  relation  to  herself — her  personal  be- 
ing and  feelings.  She  sank  back  on  her  pillow 
weakly. 

"  It's  horrible.  It's  cruelty — perfectly  heartless 
cruelty.  I  wouldn't  have  thought  my  husband " 

He  recognized  the  old  device,  that  made  his  gorge 
to  rise. 

"  That's  enough  of  that,  right  now,"  he  interrupted 
with  sinister  firmness.  "  My  former  plan  was  the 
cruelty — the  cruel  mistake  of  over-kindness — over- 
indulgence of  your  destroying  whims — the  nurturing 
of  selfishness  that  has  undermined  our  kingdom — 
the  kingdom  that  Nature  offers  to  us  all,  in  the 
simplest  of  natural  lives.  My  present  plan  is  merci- 
ful, creative — a  worthy  scheme  at  last.  I  mean  to 

325 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

save  our  happiness  and  lives.  It  was  either  thai  .* 
divorce — and  we'll  try  for  the  saving  first.  I  mea  i 
that  hereafter  we  two  shall  give  each  other  thought 
for  thought,  service  for  service — love  for  love. 

"  I  mean  to  make  you  so  thoroughly  worthy  of 
my  love  that  I  could  not  withhold  it  if  I  would.  I 
mean  to  make  you  a  wife,  a  mother — a  goddess,  Mae, 
such  as  Nature  intended  you  to  be.  God  help  me, 
for  the  day  is  late — but  the  work  has  got  to  be  done ! 
Hundreds  of  women  in  this  modern  day  submit  to 
operations — hideous  butcheries — most  of  them  need- 
less, were  their  lives  but  lived  on  normal  lines,  where 
children  are  loved  and  welcomed — and  no  one  calls 
them  cruel.  I  mean  to  be  the  surgeon  here,  though 
it  wrack  us  both  to  make  the  cure!  I  admit  that 
my  love  for  you  now  is  a  negative  thing.  You  have 
made  anything  else  impossible.  My  prayer  from 
this  time  forth  is  going  to  be  *  God  give  me  a  passion 
for  my  wife — and  give  her  a  passion  for  me ! ' 

Mae  could  not  instantly  surrender.  She  could  not 
slip  from  her  well-worn  groove  at  his  sudden  word  of 
command. 

"  Just  as  I  was  planning "  she  started  whin- 

ingly. 

Adam  raised  his  hand  in  warning. 

"  I  told  you  that  sort  of  thing  is  going  to  cease  at 
once!  No  more  weeping,  no  more  complaints,  no 
more  morbid  dwelling  on  yourself.  We  have  come  to 
the  crisis  of  our  lives.  Either  you  rise  to  the  stand- 
ard, Mae,  or  we  end  the  game  for  good  and  all.  I'm 

326 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

convinced  of  your  strength;  I'm  convinced  of  your 
ultimate  goodness,  your  fine  American  quality — or 
I  should  not  undertake  the  task.  Then  prove  your- 
self worthy  of  my  love  and  respect,  and  help  me  to 
restore  our  shattered  temple.  Passion  for  parent- 
hood, passion  for  service,  passion  for  usefulness  to 
God  and  to  man — these  are  the  Pillars  of  Eden! 
Ours  have  long  been  tottering,  and  I  mean  that  we 
shall  steady  them  in  place  as  mated  man  and  wife! 
So  get  up,  Mae,  and  come  at  once  to  the  kitchen." 

He  left  her  with  that — and  she  knew  she  must  come 
— and  she  rose  to  face  a  new  existence. 


827 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

OLD    ORDERS    THAT    CHANGE 

BEATRICE  did  not  appear  for  breakfast.  She 
pleaded  a  headache  and  remained  till  Adam  had  de- 
parted. What  aches  of  the  heart  and  soul  she  had 
suffered,  all  the  long,  sleepless  night,  were  not  for 
the  world  to  know. 

She  had  only  remained  beneath  the  roof,  so  near  to 
the  man  she  loved  with  all  her  being,  by  the  exercise 
of  all  the  will  that  had  made  her  greater  action 
possible.  Afraid  of  the  things  Mae  might  suspect, 
should  she  run  away  in  the  night,  she  had  barely  fled 
forth  from  the  place  sufficiently  long  to  cross  the 
street,  and  employ  the  'phone  in  another  apartment 
hallway.  She  had  then  returned  to  her  room,  extin- 
guished the  light,  and  groped  her  way  to  the  bed. 
She  had  not  undressed  all  night.  Dry-eyed,  fevered, 
a  prey  to  rebellion  of  the  heart  and  soul,  she  had  lain 
there  face  downward  till  dawn. 

What  sobs  had  shaken  her  had  been  tearless,  hot, 
and  racking.  What  cries  of  the  self  she  had  cheated 
of  joy  rose  fiercely  from  her  bosom,  were  smothered, 
poignant  things  that  burned  for  their  very  retention. 

When  the  morning  came  she  had  risen  at  last,  to 
328 


Old  Orders  That  Change 

sit  for  a  time  that  seemed  an  age,  gazing  sightlessly 
out  of  the  window,  on  a  world  of  gray  and  rain.  She 
was  haggard  with  her  struggle;  she  was  drawn  and 
pale  from  the  hopeless  prospect  of  her  life. 

The  maid  brought  her  book,  which  Adam  had  sent 
with  Will's  letter.  She  took  it  in  as  she  might  have 
taken  a  pitcher,  empty  of  water — to  place  it  on  the 
nearest  support  and  leave  it  there  forgotten. 

When  Annie  at  last  announced  the  breakfast  served 
she  had  looked  the  headache  part.  As  well  as  she 
knew  what  a  good  cup  of  coffee  would  accomplish,  to 
revive  her  fainting  strength  and  brace  her  nerves,  she 
dared  not  face  Adam  at  the  table.  Her  one  hope 
then  was  a  heart-breaking  hope — that  they  might 
never  meet  each  other  more.  Therein  her  own  salva- 
tion lay — even  after  all  she  had  done.  She  should' 
never  dare  accept  of  his  kindness  again.  She  had 
lost  him  irretrievably — and  she  could  not  be  glad,  to 
save  her  soul. 

It  was  nearly  nine  when  she  sat  down  alone  to  the 
rolls  and  coffee  Annie  offered.  She  had  pulled  herself 
together  then,  for  Adam  had  gone  and  the  house  was 
still,  and  the  way  for  her  final  retreat  from  the  place 
was  free  and  safe  at  last. 

Mae  barely  saw  her  guest  to  ask  that  she  might  be 
excused,  at  least  for  the  morning,  from  sitting  as 
planned  for  her  portrait.  She  had  come  to  Beatrice 
in  the  dining-room  an  altered,  half-frightened  being) 
bearing  a  suit  of  Adam's  underwear  on  which  she  was 
making  crude  repairs. 

329 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

Beatrice  welcomed  the  respite  from  work.  She  an- 
nounced she  must  go  to  the  studio  at  once,  to  attend 
to  labors  there  neglected,  and  promised  to  'phone 
\  concerning  the  next  engagement.  As  a  matter  of 
fact  she  was  fully  aware  she  should  never  return  to 
the  house. 

She  seemed  quite  calm  as  she  gazed  on  Mae,  who 
stood  between  herself  and  happiness,  but  her  nature 
was  all  in  turmoil.  She  was  amply  aware  that  she 
could  not  long  endure  to  remain  in  the  sight  of 
Adam's  wife.  The  thing  she  had  done,  in  attempting 
to  restore  Mae's  husband  to  this  always  selfish  woman, 
could  not,  at  a  moment  such  as  this,  react  to  the  joy 
of  her  soul. 

She  had  doubts  by  the  score  in  her  heart  and  mind 
— doubts  that  Mae  deserved  the  sacrifice,  doubts  of 
her  own  future  sanction  of  the  act — doubts  of  all 
goodness  in  the  world.  She  had  been  the  slave  of  vir- 
tue and  the  right — and  they  had  sorely  used  her. 
Life  at  the  best  was  a  brief  and  tragic  episode,  where 
every  heart  was  perhaps  entitled  to  all  the  bright 
sunshine  it  could  garner.  And  not  a  ray  of  this 
golden  light  was  shining  to-day,  or  in  promise,  for 
her,  along  the  pathway  she  had  chosen. 

She  was  glad  to  flee  the  house  at  ten,  in  the  rain's 
insistent  drizzle.  She  went  at  once  to  her  studio, 
finding  it  dank,  dull,  and  dreary.  It  was  not  to  be 
borne,  in  her  desolate  state  of  mind.  She  telephoned 
Mrs.  Van  Pelt,  without  delay,  and  asked  if  she  might 
not  call. 

•00 


Old  Orders  That  Change 

Her  stout  old  dowager  was  blue.  The  weather  had 
depressed  her  immeasurably,  she  said,  and  company, 
more  than  anything  else  in  the  world,  her  bosom 
craved.  She  had  'phoned  repeatedly,  the  previous 
evening,  in  an  effort  to  reach  her  cheering  friend  and 
ask  her  to  come  for  the  night.  Would  Beatrice  come 
at  once,  she  asked — prepared  to  listen  to  some 
plans. 

Beatrice  promptly  appeared  upon  the  scene — and 
listened  to  the  plans.  They  involved,  as  she  had 
thought  they  might,  the  proposition,  made  before,  of 
going  abroad  for  a  year.  As  if  to  deprive  herself  of 
all  possibility  of  retreat  from  the  choice  she  had 
made  in  foiling  herself  and  Adam,  she  consented 
eagerly  to  accompany  her  friend  and  urged  her  to 
hasten  preparations. 

Three  days  later  they  departed.  She  had  written 
to  Mae  of  her  inability  to  continue  with  the  paint- 
ing, and  she  wrote  a  brief  note  to  Babe.  Neither 
Will  nor  Adam  did  she  see.  Her  rent  at  the  studio 
was  paid;  the  place  was  closed. 

With  her  heart  left  behind,  despite  her  utmost  ef- 
forts, she  turned  her  back  upon  the  land  she  loved,  as 
well  as  on  the  fondest  hope  she  had  ever  entertained — 
and  faced  a  duty  she  could  barely  endure,  with  all 
of  her  soul's  resolution. 

Adam  learned  through  Babe  of  her  going.  It  hurt 
him  down  to  the  very  depths  of  life's  most  sacred  re- 
treat. He  had  somewhat  expected  such  a  move;  he 
had  made  no  effort  to  visit  or  'phone  to  the  studio; 

Ml 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

he  had  torn  all  the  wild,  sweet  madness  from  his 
heart,  and  was  grimly  confronting  his  task.  Never- 
theless, it  felt  in  his  breast  as  if  the  very  ties  of  life 
had  been  pulled  entirely  out  by  force,  through  the 
flesh  and  the  tissue  of  his  being. 

Will  went  away.  He  was  certain  his  message  had 
been  read  by  Beatrice — and  answered  by  merciful 
silence.  He  took  advantage  of  a  business  need  that 
called  him  away  to  Chicago.  His  book  and  his  letter, 
both  unread,  were  deeply  stored  in  the  steamer's  hold 
in  a  trunk  that  bore  a  label  on  the  end — "  Not  wanted 
on  passage." 

Meantime,  in  the  Croswell  home,  the  labor  of  Mae's 
regeneration  was  in  progress,  and  Adam  was  plan- 
ning further  changes.  He  had  notified  the  agent 
of  his  country  property — the  home  in  East  Winog, 
where  once  he  had  lived  when  he  and  Beatrice  had 
dreamed  their  world  was  gold — that  he  wished  the 
leaser  to  surrender  the  place  when  the  term  expired 
in  March.  He  was  going  there  to  live. 

Against  the  move  he  made  his  preparations. 
Nearly  all  of  that  room  where  Beatrice  had  stayed, 
on  the  night  of  the  culminating  crisis,  he  filled  with 
potted  plants.  Jonquils,  tulips,  narcissus,  rose- 
trees,  azaleas,  and  ferns,  he  sent  them  in  by  the  dozen 
— all  to  engross  his  wife's  attention.  Many  he  meant 
to  carry  along,  to  be  planted  in  his  garden. 

The  care  of  these,  the  mending  of  his  garments, 
twice-a-day  walks  in  rain  or  shine  with  her  dog,  read- 
ing aloud  for  their  better  instruction  and  entertain- 

332 


ment,  cooking  and  household  supervision — all  these 
and  a  hundred  lesser  employments  he  put  upon  Mae 
without  pause.  With  new  relentlessness  he  forbade 
her  whining  and  complaint,  her  thoughts  upon  her- 
self, her  extravagance  in  dress,  her  summoning  of 
doctors,  her  former  pursuit  of  bridge,  and  profit- 
less amusement. 

He  took  her  to  the  theater,  from  time  to  time;  he 
invited  his  friends  to  his  home.  He  began  to  laugh 
and  be  jolly  as  of  yore,  but  at  last  in  an  honest  man- 
ner. He  busied  himself  from  morning  till  night  to 
provide  pleasant  tasks  for  them  both.  He  helped 
where  his  help  could  not  interfere  with  the  scheme  of 
making  Mae  useful. 

There  were  times  when  he  saw  his  wife  was  weary — 
times  when  he  feared  that  perhaps  her  life  had  wholly 
unfitted  her  for  work.  He  was  close  to  surrender  on 
many  a  day,  but  he  closed  down  his  jaw  and  went  on. 
He  said  to  himself :  "  She  would  live  if  I  died  and  left 
her  penniless — and  the  Adam  of  old  is  dead.  She 
would  live  by  work,  and  rise  anew — and  she's  got  to 
rise  for  us  both." 

That  Mae  should  revert  repeatedly  to  her  old-time 
habit  of  life  and  thought  was  inevitable.  Her 
growth  towards  acceptance  of  the  change  was  slow; 
nevertheless,  it  was  certain.  She  had  always  con- 
tained the  germs  and  elements  of  a  higher  and 
nobler  womanhood ;  and  now  they  were  sprouting 
and  lifting  upward  at  last  in  the  new  and  vigorous 
sunshine  of  Adam's  husbandry. 

333 


The  Pillars  of  Edeu 

The  sympathy  that  came  upon  him  now  was  gen- 
uine. The  tendrils  of  pity  that  he  felt,  as  he  saw  she 
obeyed  and  was  trying,  all  grew  to  a  tender  sort  of 
love.  His  boyish  hopes  returned  to  his  heart,  in  a 
tentative,  wistful  way.  There  were  days  when  he 
found  he  had  overtaxed  her  strength — and  then  he 
would  take  her  for  a  drive. 

He  found  she  was  soft  and  must  be  slowly  urged 
to  the  strength  that  was  her  right  and  heritage. 
But  loyal  Nature  was  his  friend,  and  seconded  all  his 
efforts.  She  put  new  stiffness  into  muscles  that  were 
flabby  and  all  but  atrophied ;  she  rebuilt  tissues 
broken  down ;  she  rose  to  the  call  of  exhausted  nerves 
and  fortified  them,  one  by  one. 

At  the  end  of  two  months  a  new,  live  Mae  was 
slowly  emerging  from  the  useless  shell  of  the  self 
she  had  been  before.  She  was  thinner;  she  was  fre- 
quently tired  completely  out,  at  the  end  of  one  of 
Adam's  days,  but  she  was  doctorless,  happier,  rosier 
of  cheek — and  frequently  she  sang  at  her  labor. 
She  had  far  to  go  and  much  to  do,  but  Adam  was 
certain  his  cure  was  right,  and  his  vigilance  in- 
creased. 

Babe,  in  the  meantime,  marveling  at  what  was 
taking  place,  had  felt  some  new,  sweet  womanly  pull 
at  the  strings  secured  in  her  heart.  She  began  to 
experience  a  love  for  her  aunt  she  had  never  even 
hoped  could  exist.  She  was  there  for  two  weeks  only 
of  the  change.  She  and  Paul  had  become  engaged, 
and  she  went  for  a  visit  to  his  parents.  They  lived 

334 


Old  Orders  That  Change 

at  Albany,  were  a  jolly  old  pair,  and  were  marvel- 
ously  glad  of  the  choice  their  son  had  made  in  tht 
hour  Babe  alighted  from  the  train. 

This  was  the  status  of  Adam's  affairs  when  March 
came  blusterfully  into  being.  He  moved  his  house- 
hold down  to  his  "  Ranch,"  and  began  to  live  as  he 
said  man  should — with  his  feet  on  the  ground,  his 
head  in  the  sky,  and  his  soul  in  the  elements  with  God. 


385 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE    TIE    THAT    BINDS 

NEAKLT  eighteen  months  of  time  had  sped  when 
Beatrice  returned.  She  had  found  the  letter  from 
Will  at  last  and  written  her  reply. 

She  had  been  for  two  days  in  East  Winog  when 
once  more  Fate,  with  ample  assistance  from  Mae  and 
Babe,  conducted  her  again  to  Adam's  home. 

It  was  Saturday — the  afternoon  of  a  gorgeous  day 
in  May.  The  garden  behind  the  Croswell  home  was 
bathed  in  fragrance  and  gold.  Adam's  "  backyard 
of  Eden  "  had  flourished  wondrously,  with  countless 
old-fashioned  flowers.  And  Adam's  plan  of  daily  life 
had  flourished  scarcely  less.  The  outdoor  chairs,  the 
well-used  hammock,  and  countless  signs  of  comfort 
thereabout  were  symbols  all  of  contentment,  calm,  and 
homeliness. 

Adam  himself  came  swinging  down  the  country 
road  from  a  neighbor's  a  mile  away.  He  was  bearing 
a  bundle  of  shoots  in  his  hand,  to  be  planted  next  his 
hedge.  He  was  sun-tanned,  boyish,  and  happy  as  he 
walked,  reflecting  on  the  many  things  that  entered 
his  present  existence,  and  wondering  now  if  Sloane 
had  arrived  for  his  usual  Saturday  visit. 

886 


The  Tie  That  Binds 

The  turn  of  the  road  was  thickly  masked  by  a 
growth  of  beeches  and  birch.  The  richer  greens  of 
fields  beyond,  the  tree-forms  cut  against  the  sky,  and 
soft,  white  masses  of  cloud  afloat  in  the  luminous 
blue,  brought  faint,  vague  memories  back  to  his  mind 
of  a  day  from  the  far-off  past. 

Meantime,  there  in  the  garden  of  his  home,  his  wife 
had  invited  Beatrice  to  stay  and  dine  with  them- 
selves and  Sloane,  who,  in  turn,  had  been  sent  to  the 
baker's. 

The  meeting  had  been  a  pretty  commonplace  be- 
tween two  sterling  women.  Mae  had  arisen  from  her 
work,  at  the  side  of  a  dainty  basket  on  the  porch, 
and  her  kiss  had  done  more  to  heal  the  past  than  could 
ever  have  seemed  a  possibility. 

And  then,  when  at  last  she  had  fled  to  the  house  to 
assist  for  a  time  in  the  kitchen,  Babe  and  Beatrice, 
left  there  alone,  smiled  for  the  marvel  of  the  change. 

"  She's  lovely,  now,  just  lovely,"  said  Babe.  "  It 
almost  makes  me  cry,  sometimes,  and  yet  I  don't  know 
why." 

Beatrice  answered  with  a  rare,  sweet  beam  from 
her  eyes.  She,  too,  was  altered.  Her  beauty  had 
taken  on  something  of  serenity  that  made  it  strangely 
deep.  In  her  soft,  gray  eyes  burned  wonderful  youth, 
now  sobered  by  the  wisdom  of  the  years. 

"  I  have  never  seen  your  aunt  appear  so  beautiful," 
she  answered  honestly.  "  But  what  is  your  won- 
derful secret,  Babe,  that  you  said  you  had  to 
tell?" 

887 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

**  You  haven't  guessed?  "  said  Babe,  with  a  blush. 
"  I  thought,  of  course " 

Mae  appeared  at  the  kitchen  window,  in  time  to 
interrupt. 

"  I  expect  you  to  stay,  Mrs.  Graham,"  she  said. 
"  You  mustn't  disappoint  us.  The  roast  is  so  big  and 
brown." 

Beatrice  wanted  to  stay,  and  yet  she  hesitated. 

"  Why — I  hardly  know  just " 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  said  Babe.  "  You've  got  to  stay — and 
Paul  and  I  will  come  over  the  minute  we  finish  our 
dinner  !  We  won't  even  stop  to  wash  the  dishes  !  " 

Mae  disappeared,  while  Beatrice,  facing  the  eager 
Babe,  sat  down  and  smiled  upon  her. 

"  So  that  is  your  news,  dear  Babe?  You  and  Paul 
are  really  married  ?  " 

Babe  knelt  down  in  the  grass  beside  her  chair. 

"  I  wanted  to  tell  you  kind  of  pretty  and  have  you 
kiss  me  again." 

Beatrice  felt  the  tears  abruptly  welling  in  her 
eyes.  She  put  her  arm  around  the  affectionate, 
child-like  girl,  thus  facing  the  world  and  its  prob- 
lems, to  draw  her  down  upon  her  bosom. 

"  But  why,  dear  Babe,  did  you  wish  such  a  kiss 
from  me?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  just  love  you! "  said  Babe, 
and  she  threw  both  arms  about  her  neck,  and  cried  a 
little  on  her  breast.  "  I  missed  you  dreadfully  at 
first,"  she  added  after  a  moment,  in  which  neither 
could  have  spoken.  "  There  was  no  one  to  take  your 

338 


The  Tie  That  Binds 

place,  and  it  made  me  homesick,  when  I  found  you'd 
gone  away."  She  recovered  a  little,  raised  her  head, 
and  looked  at  Beatrice  through  streaming  eyes. 
"  And,  of  course,  at  that  time  poor  dear  Aunt  Mae 
didn't  know  whether  she  was  afoot  or  horseback." 

Beatrice  laughed  in  sheer  relief. 

"And  how  is  Paul?" 

"  He's  the  happiest  kid  you  ever  saw — excepting 
me !  "  Babe  was  smiling,  with  dew  upon  her  lids. 

"  And  your  aunt  ? — I  imagine  her  improvement 
must  have  been  quite  gradual." 

"  Oh  no,  some  things  altered  all  of  a  sudden," 
said  Babe.  "  Of  course  she's  only  been  this  way  for 
the  last  three  months  or  so." 

"  Did  she  change  her  doctor  ?  " 

"  No,  she  changed  her  mind.  I  don't  know  how 
it  happened.  I  guess  Uncle  Adam  made  her  quit  her 
foolishness — and  now  she's  awfully  sweet,  and  I  love 
her  more  and  more !  " 

"  And  they  are  very  happy,  aren't  they — here  in 
this  beautiful  place  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes !  and  I  could  just  cry  about  it,  I'm  so 
glad.  And  Fifi,  the  flealess  wonder,  was  finally  given 
away."  She  rose,  and  Beatrice  also  stood,  to  look 
about  the  garden. 

"  How  much  more  it  means,"  she  said,  "  to  live  in 
a  home  like  this!"  She  walked  a  little  towards  the 
hedge,  where  the  earth  had  been  newly  disturbed. 
pt  This  is  where  your  uncle  is  gardening." 

"  Aunt  Mae,  too,"  said  Babe.  "  She's  lived  in  this 
SS9 


Thf  Pillars  of  Eden 

garden  all  summer.  Uncle  Adam  superintends  it, 
of  course,  and  putters  around  a  good  deal  with  all 
the  flowers,  but  he  lets  Aunt  Mae  have  a  lot  of  fun 
here,  working.  Paul  plants  vegetables.  He  says 
it  may  not  save  very  much,  but  every  little  helps." 

Beatrice,  with  thoughts  all  centered  on  Adam,  and 
the  things  that  had  been,  both  while  he  lived  here  once 
before,  in  the  days  gone  far  beyond  recall,  and  while 
they  were  all  in  town,  walked  slowly  along  by  the 
patch  of  earth  he  had  recently  spaded  to  looseness. 

"  Why,  look  at  that,  Babe,"  she  presently  said 
" — a  bit  of  poison  ivy !  "  She  took  up  a  rake  and 
tore  the  weed  vigorously  from  the  earth.  "  It  would 
never  do  to  permit  any  poison  in  as  pretty  a  place 
as  this." 

And  Adam,  coming  actively  in  by  the  lawn,  heard 
the  accents  of  her  voice. 


840 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE    TRIUMPH 

THE  meeting,  like  everything  else  that  day,  was  a 
natural,  wholesome  episode,  as  golden  as  the  day  it- 
self and  as  warm  as  its  sun-lit  beauty. 

"  Well,  well,  well,"  said  Adam,  heartily,  striding 
around  a  lilac-shrub,  to  drop  his  bundle  of  roots  and 
slips  while  he  took  both  the  visitor's  hands,  "  where  in 
the  world  have  you  come  from?  By  George,  what  a 
pleasant  surprise !  Less  than  fifteen  minutes  ago  I 
was  wondering  where  you  were,  and  when  we  should 
see  you  again.  And  you're  looking  so  well,  and — 
have  you  seen  my  wife?  You'll  have  to  stay  to 
dinner !  " 

Beatrice,  smiling,  could  scarcely  have  answered  had 
she  tried.  But  Babe  was  less  afflicted. 

"  She's  already  invited,  Uncle  Adam.  That  re- 
minds me — my  stew !  Paul  and  I  are  coming  over 
just  as  soon  as  ever  we  can  eat,  so  I've  got  to  get 
things  started."  She  returned  to  Beatrice  for  a 
kiss. 

"  Good-by,  dear,"  Beatrice  said  to  her  fondly,  and 
Babe  went  plunging  through  the  hedge. 

"  Well,  well,"  Adam  continued,  his  eyes  as  bright 
84,1 


The  Pittars  of  Eden 

as  a  boy's,  as  he  took  up  his  bundle  from  the  grass. 
"  You've  caught  us  in  the  act — ranching,  here  in  the 
country.  And  by  the  way,  I  wonder  if  you  happen  to 
know  how  certain  shoots  should  be  planted?  " 

Beatrice  smiled  at  his  boyish  ways. 

"  What  sort  of  shoots  are  you  planting?  " 

"  I'm  after  an  old-fashioned  garden,  pure  and  sim- 
ple. I've  already  got  hollyhocks,  mignonette,  snap- 
dragons, portulaca — How  are  you,  Beatrice,  any- 
way? "  He  suddenly  dropped  his  shoots  and  took 
her  hands  again. 

She  met  his  more  serious  gaze  unflinchingly.  For 
a  moment  some  deep  and  wondrous  understanding 
played  in  silence  between  them. 

"  I  am  quite  well,  Adam.     And  you?  " 

There  were  things  of  the  soul  revealed  in  his  eyes — 
things  hopeful,  things  sad — and  things  resigned  to 
Fate,  and  duty,  and  the  right. 

"  Thanks  to  you,  Beatrice,  I'm  restored,"  he  said. 
"  You've  seen  my  wife  ?  " 

Beatrice  nodded,  and  slowly  withdrew  her  hands. 
"  It's  a  wonderful  change.  And  you  don't  know  how 
very  glad  I  am." 

"  You  brought  it  about,"  he  told  her  frankly 
" — the  things  you  did,  and  said.  You  are  one  of  the 
wisest  and  noblest  women  in  all  the  world." 

She  felt  it  was  no  flattery — no  idle  effort  to  revive 
the  flame  they  had  both  repressed.  She  saw  to  the 
depths  of  his  nature,  comprehended  the  exaltation  of 
his  newer  being,  and  was  warmed  and  comforted  im- 

84,2 


The  Triumph 

measurably  by  the  tribute  he  paid  her,  not  only  by 
his  words,  but  more  by  the  life  he  had  resumed. 

"  Thank  you,  Adam,"  she  murmured.  "  You  have 
solved  your  problems.  You  are  happy  ?  " 

A  serious  look  came  for  a  moment  in  his  eyes. 

"  There  is  no  such  thing  as  an  absolute  solution  of 
our  human  problems,  Beatrice,  and  no  such  thing  as 
perfect  happiness.  Nevertheless,  I  am  happy — yes, 
I  am  happy.  Things  are  adjusted  and  normal.  I 
have  wrested  a  measure  of  victory  out  of  ends  that 
looked  like  defeat." 

She  was  perfectly  honest  and  candid  when  she  said : 
"  I  am  glad  you've  found  you  were  mistaken." 

He  understood,  and  met  her  gaze  with  steady  eyes 
where  something  half  sad,  and  something  wholly  boy- 
ish, and  something  eternally  brave  must  always  lie 
commingled. 

"  I  was  not  mistaken,  Beatrice.  Everything  was 
wrong — and  I  loved  you.  I  had  always  loved  you. 
There  was  no  mistake  in  that." 

She  flushed  and  slightly  turned  away. 

"  You  mustn't  say  that  now." 

"  I  know,"  he  answered  honestly.  "  Mae  is  becom- 
ing a  splendid  woman — but  you  were  the  guardian 
angel  for  us  both.  This  is  the  last  time  we  shall  ever 
have  a  little  talk  like  this — you  and  I — and  I've  got 
to  tell  you,  Beatrice,  that  I  shall  love  you  always — 
but  always  as  a  friend — a  real,  good,  indispensable 
friend."  He  paused  for  a  moment,  looking  into  her 
eyes.  "  Once  things  might  have  been  different,  for 

343 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

you  and  me,  but  Fate  drew  our  pathways  apart. 
Thank  God,  we  can  face  it  all  frankly,  and  be  friends 
to  the  end  of  our  lives !  " 

She  smiled  at  him  understandingly — and  as  one 
very  far  away. 

"  And  no  one  knows  ?  " 

He  also  smiled,  in  a  faint,  quiet  way,  as  of  one  who 
comes  upon  some  quaint  old  token  of  the  past,  useless 
now,  but  redolent  of  lavender  and  sunshine  long  de- 
parted. 

"  No  one  knows  that  we  were  sweethearts,  ever. 
No  one  knows  anything  at  all.  No  one  ever  shall." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  turning  away  to  his 
flowers. 

"  I  hesitated  about  coming  here  to-day — but  I 
thought  we  should  be  obliged  to  meet — and  this  might 
prove  the  better  way." 

"  It  was  like  you — and  wise,"  he  answered  ear- 
nestly, taking  up  his  shoots.  "  We  shall  meet  very 
often,  I  trust,  Beatrice,  and  feel  no  sense  of  embar- 
rassment. Let's  be  too  frank,  too  honest  for  that — 
and  we'll  both  be  the  better  for  the  friendship." 

She  was  pulling  a  few  dead  leaves  and  faded  blos- 
soms from  a  shrub. 

"  But  at  least  we  will  try  to  forget  ?  " 

He  met  her  gaze  steadily.  "  We  have  forgotten — 
everything  but  friendship." 

Once  more,  as  before,  their  gazes  met  across  their 
chasm.  They  clung  for  a  moment,  that  was  never 
to  be  repeated — then  parted  as  if  in  farewell. 

344 


The  Triumph 

Her  voice  assumed  another  tone.  "  Won't  your 
roots  be  dried  out,  in  the  sun  ?  " 

Adam  felt  of  the  shoots  in  his  hand.  "  I'll  get 
them  in  and  sprinkle  them  thoroughly  this  evening. 
By  the  way,  you've  been  abroad  ?  " 

"  At  a  little  quiet  place  in  Spain." 

He  began  to  plant  his  shoots. 

"  What  about  Will?  " 

"Mr.  Sloane?" 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  the  letter  he  wrote  you  that 
night — I  mean  the  letter  he  wrote  and  left " 

She  colored  slightly.  **  You  knew  about  that  let- 
ter— knew  that  he  wrote?  " 

"  I  dictated  the  letter." 

"  You  die " 

He  looked  up  at  her  swiftly,  in  one  of  his  frank, 
boyish  moods,  disturbed  by  what  he  had  partially  re- 
vealed, yet  ready  to  make  his  confession. 

"  I  didn't  know  to  whom  it  was  going  at  the  time. 
I  merely  knew  that  Will  desired  to  ask  some  beautiful 
woman  to  be  his  wife.  He  was  so  thoroughly  hopeless 
with  stage  fright  or  buck-ague  that  he  got  me  to  tell 
him  what  to  say." 

Her  face  remained  warm  with  color. 

"  But — how  did  you  subsequently  discover  the  let- 
ter was  meant  for  me  ?  " 

He  rose  and  faced  her  as  before,  his  hands  all 
grimed  with  earth. 

"  I  found  it — in  your  book — after  my  wife  came 
down  to  see  me." 

345 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

It  was  perilously  close  to  forbidden  topics  and 
tilings  to  be  avoided,  but  she  did  not  shrink,  as  she 
found  him  so  perfectly  candid. 

"  And — you  sent  it  to  my  room?  " 

"  I  did.  You  had  shown  me  the  way.  It  was  the 
one  little  thing  I  could  possibly  do  to  rise  to  your  ex- 
pectations. You  can  see  that  with  my  love  for  Will, 
and  my  marveling  at  what  you  had  done,  it  halted  my 
headlong  folly — forever." 

Her  heart  was  full.  It  almost  seemed  as  if  she 
were  being  repaid.  She  turned  away  and  Adam 
kneeled  down  at  his  work. 

After  a  moment  she  said :  "  I'm  very  fond  of  all  the 
old-fashioned  flowers." 

"  Of  course  you  are,  Beatrice.  They're  more 
like  the  old-fashioned  ways.  .  .  .  What  about 
Will?  " 

She  answered  frankly :  "  I  find  I'm  very  fond  of 
Will.  I  think  of  him  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure." 

"  And  you've  answered  his  letter,  at  last  ?  " 

She  answered  with  a  question : 

"  You  had  your  suspicions  ?  " 

"  I  thought  there  was  something  that  had  made 
him  mighty  happy." 

Once  more  they  were  silent,  while  he  patted  down 
the  earth. 

Beatrice  watched  him  amusedly.  She  said:  "I 
wouldn't  plant  those  quite  so  close  together." 

"  I  guess  I'll  get  the  sprinkler  anyway,"  he  an- 
swered. 

346 


The  Triumph 

Beatrice  was  left  there  alone,  and  she  wandered 
out  by  the  path. 

Will,  returning,  found  her  by  herself  and  hastened 
to  her  side. 

"  Dearest,"  he  said,  "  you  look  so  happy  here.  Do 
you  think  you'd  like  a  little  house  in  a  village  like 
this,  with  a  garden  of  our  own?  " 

Her  heart  was  brimming  full. 

"  More  than  anything  in  all  the  world." 

"  I'm  glad,"  he  said,  laughing  for  sheer  lover's  joy. 
"  I  bought  one  yesterday — in  case  you  might  like 
such  a  home." 

She  looked  at  him  quickly,  with  eyes  that  suddenly 
filled. 

"  Will  Sloane !  " 

Then  Adam  came  whistling  from  his  basement,  and 
Mae  appeared  upon  the  porch. 

"  Is  that  you,  Will?  "  she  called  out  musically. 
"  What  did  the  baker  say?  " 

Will  and  Beatrice  came  back  towards  the  porch 
together. 

Will  reddened  like  a  boy. 

"  Why — er — he  said  the  man  was  on  the  road." 

Babe  came  bursting  through  the  hedge,  to  find  her- 
self confronted  by  the  company. 

"  Everybody  out  here  yet  ?  "  she  said.  "  Aunt 
Mae,  can  I  borrow  your  chopping  bowl  ?  I'm  trying 
to  make  some  apple  susan." 

"  Mary  will  let  you  have  it,  I'm  sure." 

Adam  put  down  his  sprinkler.  "  Say,  Babe,"  said 
347 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

he,  "  did  you  fetch  hack  my  monkey-wrencn  that  you 
borrowed  the  first  of  the  week?  " 

Babe  was  already  on  the  porch  and  making  for  the 
kitchen. 

"  I'll  bring  it  to-night,"  and  she  disappeared. 

Mae  addressed  her  guests :  "  Every  one  of  you  peo- 
ple will  have  to  go  right  in  for  dinner.  It's  almost 
ready."  She  added  to  Beatrice  hospitably :  "  I'll 
show  you  the  way.  Will,  you  can  take  care  of  your- 
self." 

She  escorted  Beatrice  in  at  once,  and  Will  was  close 
behind. 

Adam  had  emptied  his  sprinkling-pot  and  was  com- 
ing to  fill  it  anew  when  Babe  emerged  from  the  kitchen 
door,  the  chopping  bowl  in  hand. 

"  Not  a  kiss  all  this  time,"  he  reminded  her  fondly, 
and  holding  up  his  earth-grimed  hands,  he  went  for 
her  like  a  very  boy. 

She  laughed  and  darted  past  him  on  the  porch, 
escaping  behind  the  little  stand  where  Mae  had  left 
her  sewing. 

"  No,  you  don't,"  she  said,  "  not  till  you  wash  those 
paws." 

Adam  made  a  dive  to  catch  her,  and  over  went  the 
stand.  Everything  spilled  from  the  dainty,  blue- 
lined  basket,  and  Adam  was  halted  by  the  sight. 

"  Now,  you  get  out,"  Babe  added  ruefully.  "  Just 
look  what  you  have  done !  " 

"  All  right  for  you,"  was  Adam's  reply,  and  around 
to  the  basement  he  went. 

348 


The  Triumph 

Babe  had  knelt  and  was  taking  up  the  things  when 
Mae  returned  to  get  them. 

"Why,  Babe,"  she  said  mildly,  "what  in  the 
world " 

Babe  rose  abruptly,  her  eyes  filled  with  a  gentle  re- 
proach and  the  softest  conceivable  light.  In  her 
hand  she  held  a  tiny  garment. 

"  I  don't  care,  Aunt  Mae,"  she  interrupted  warmly. 
"  I  think  it's  mean  you  didn't  tell  me.  I'd  have  told 
you  the  very  first  thing." 

Mae  knew  that  her  secret  was  out.  She  was  thor- 
oughly confused.  She  blushed  like  a  girl. 

"  Well — I — I — I'm  older  than  you,"  she  stam- 
mered, taking  the  little  soft  creation  of  her  love. 
"  That  makes  it  very  different." 

Babe  suddenly  threw  both  arms  about  her. 

"  Oh,  dear  Aunt  Mae,  I'm  so  happy ! "  she  said. 
"  It  makes  me  love  you  so !  How  long  have  you  been 
making  these  ?  " 

Mae  had  never  been  more  touched,  more  happy  in 
her  life.  She  folded  the  sweet  young  form  against 
her  bosom. 

"  Why — some  little  time — but  please  don't  tell  any- 
body, Babe." 

Babe  kissed  her,  with  an  honest  affection. 

"  I  won't.  But,  oh,  I'm  so  glad !  I  hope  that 
when  I  come  to  have  one  mine  may  happen  to  be  a 
boy,  and  yours  a  girl,  and  they'll  grow  up  and 
marry,  and  have  a  whole  family  of  children.  Fd 
love  so  to  be  a  real  grandmother ! " 

349 


The  Pillars  of  Eden 

A  faint,  far-off  whistle  sounded. 

"  There's  Paul ! "  she  cried,  and  snatching  up  her 
bowl,  she  ran  for  the  hedge  like  a  deer. 

Adam  had  come  from  the  basement.  He  saw  where 
Mae  was  taking  up  her  things.  Down  went  his 
sprinkler,  and  up  the  steps  he  scrambled,  where  he 
took  his  wife's  face  in  his  hands. 

He  kissed  her  twice. 

"  And  how  is  the  little  mother  this  afternoon  ?  " 

She  was  holding  her  basket.  She  looked  in  his  eyes 
with  a  wonderful,  glorifying  joy. 

"  I  am  very,  very  happy.". 

He  put  his  arm  about  her  waist,  and  led  her  into 
the  house. 


THE    END 


